Date With Destiny
by Lassar
Summary: Sequel to Tango,and now COMPLETE. The Witchblade abandoned Sara when she was mortally wounded. Ian is holding it in secret, hoping she will to choose to take it back. Dante can't wait to kick Pez while she's down, which suits Irons new plan just fine.
1. Default Chapter

Date with Destiny

"Heya Pez. How are you feeling today?" retired chief Joe Siri came breezing through the white hospital door with an open topped wicker basket. Piled haphazardly inside were crossword puzzle books, magazines, and a couple paperback mysteries.

"Every day is a little better Joe. I really hate all this sitting around, which the nurses assure me is a sign that I'm almost recovered." Sara eyed the basket with the same look as a child trying to figure out what was under the wrappings of his Christmas present.

"Did you get it?" Sara added in a hushed voice, as if afraid to be overheard.

"Yeah yeah, I got it. Keep your shirt on." Joe grinned as he lifted the assorted reading material out of the basket. Somewhat squished underneath the camouflaging books was a white paper bag, made transparent in places by the grease soaking through.

"If you had to eat here, you'd be starving too," Pez grumbled as she reached for the bag. The smell of cheeseburger and French fries covered the antiseptic hospital smell, and Sara's stomach growled in counterpoint.

"I hope you know what you're doing. That stuff is bad for you when you're healthy." Siri just shook his head as Sara dove into the bag like a stray into a trashcan.

Not bothering to reply, Sara shot him a look of irritation for his mother hen attitude and very pointedly bit into the greasy burger.

"Where do you want the rest of this stuff?" Joe asked as he looked around.

The hospital room was as full of flowers as McCarty's desk had been on Valentine's Day. True, most of them were the cheap arrangements of mums, carnations, or daylilies, but it was the thought that counted. Sara Pezzini adored each one, especially the headless long stems from Vicki Po. Trust a coroner to send a 'Morticia Bouquet'. Sara had smiled each time her eyes landed on them.

Not all the gifts and cards were from fellow police officers though. Pezzini's near death at the hands of the daughter of one of the city's more famous serial killers had been a ten-day wonder. As crime scene reports were leaked to the press, the bizarre ritualism had caught the attention and imagination of the public, and gifts began to flood in from the civilian quarter.

"Just shove stuff around until you find a spot." Sara waved the hand with the burger, her other hand digging into the French fries.

"How about if I throw this one out the window?" Joe indicated a particularly tasteless but huge bouquet from the Tattler.

"Go ahead. If you manage to brain a reporter when you do it, I will love you forever." Pez mumbled around a mouthful of fries.

The media had made incredible pests of themselves, trying every trick in the book to get an interview or pictures of the convalescing detective to boost newspaper sales. Sara had been unconscious for the first few days, having nearly bled to death before help could arrive, so she missed the initial flurry of reporters. By the time she was conscious for longer than minutes at a time, a pair of uniforms had been assigned to the door of her room to keep the media vultures at bay.

Normally they would have moved on to bothering her relatives, but Pezzini didn't have any immediate family. Undeterred, they had taken to following her coworkers. Jake seemed to have gotten the worst of it, never being able to go anywhere without being pestered. Orlinsky had told her all about it in that dry voice of his, a half-smile quirking his lips, when he came in to take her statement.

"I don't see any," Joe's voice was filled with disappointment as it floated back over his shoulder. He was hanging out the open window, apparently looking for targets.

"Ah well, just put it on the floor then. Besides, I can just imagine the headlines if you had found a victim." Sara chuckled.

"You sure you want me to even bother to leave them? They'll make great camouflage for the next munchie run." Siri raised an eyebrow. It went without saying that Pezzini would ask him to smuggle more food in. Yesterday it had been Coney dogs with extra onions and relish.

After a week of self-examination, Sara was almost desperate enough to watch reruns of Jerry Springer, just to get away from the recriminating voices in her head. Those magazines could be Vogue or Redbook and she'd still read through them for a break.

Danny and Ian had both been right about her, as much as it pained her to admit it. Even more painful was the fact that she had not heard from Danny at all since that night. Without the Witchblade, she could not communicate with her deceased partner. It was the one thing she missed about the Gauntlet. The fact that she was missing anything about that accursed bracelet told her quite clearly that she had too much time on her hands.

"No, I really need something to do once visiting hours are over. There's nothing on TV worth watching. Believe me, I've looked, and McCarty won't bring any of our caseload in. I am bored out of my skull Joe." Sara plopped back on the pillows; wincing slightly as her less-than-cautious movement jarred the neat row of stitches that marched from wrist to elbow.

Even during visiting hours Pezzini had seen very few people, only the detectives assigned to the case, her rookie partner Jake, a few visits from Kenneth Irons that she still wasn't sure how she felt about, and a small handful of close friends. It had reminded her rather strongly of Ian's words to her that fateful night. She had kept an emotional distance between herself and anyone who would let her, in an effort to insulate herself from the pain of losing another friend. It had worked; she had many acquaintances, and almost no close friends.

"I am left here with nothing to do but think too much. Contemplating my mortality is not my idea of a good time, you know?" Lying in a hospital bed listening to monitors beeping, Sara had begun to reevaluate her decisions. It had been easier to submerge her self in work and never think about the future or the past, when she actually had something to do. Now it was painfully clear that she had simply existed, an automaton struggling from day to day without expectations or hopes. Just another cog in the justice system machine, doing her job because it was all she knew.

"I can remember what that's like. Been in and out of the hospital a few times myself," Joe grunted sympathetically.

"Must have been before my time," Sara teased.

"Hell yeah, Dante was just a rookie, that's how long ago it was." Siri dropped into the oversized but still uncomfortable metal and cloth chair.

"Ah, the Stone Age."

"Hey, show some respect, you little punk. I changed your diapers, and I'm not afraid to circulate your baby pictures." Joe fell back on his favorite threat.

"Don't think retirement will keep you safe from my revenge if you do," Sara warned, trying to keep a straight face and failing.

"It might be worth it. Oh, speaking of revenge," the transition was awkward, but Joe had put off telling Sara this for long enough, "You know Dante is carrying his grudge against your father to the next generation."

"I gathered as much." Pezzini couldn't help wondering where Siri was going with all of this.

"Yeah, but I bet you don't know why. Not that it matters. All that you need to know is that Dante is going to do everything in his power to get you off the Force, and this could be the lever he uses to shove you out."

"What are you talking about?" Sara's brow furrowed in confusion and anger that Dante was on her ass, even here.

"After a traumatic event like this there will be a psychological evaluation done before they let you return to work. It's standard operating procedure. I think the shrink's gonna be told to make sure you fail your eval. It's perfect for him. No one would be surprised if you were psychologically unfit; after all, no one knows what happened to you for sure. They only know what's been in the papers, and that's led to a lot of lurid speculation really."

"Oh please, that bitch wasn't even close to breaking me. Killing me yes, making me crazy no." Pez rolled her eyes.

"You know it's much harder to prove you're sane than not Sara. How much harder will it be when the person evaluating you has their career on the line? I'm sorry kiddo, but I think you're screwed unless you've got some strings to pull and markers to call in that I don't know about." Siri stared deep into her green eyes, willing Pez to understand how far up the creek she really was.

"I can't believe this!" Sara exploded, arms flinging outward as if to push everything away from her. "Why would you think Dante is going to do this?"

"Come on Sara, you know that if Bruno had been acting Captain when Danny was shot you'd be lucky to be holding down a desk somewhere. I wasn't going to tell you this, but I had to call in the last of my favors to get you reinstated, kiddo." Joe winced as Sara shot up in bed, cheeks flushed with anger and that deep down guilt that Joe was all too familiar with, the feeling that if you had just done something different your partner would still be alive. It was how he felt about her father, even after all these years.

"What the Hell? It's not like I shot my partner, or brought him knowingly into a situation beyond our control," Pezzini growled, ignoring the voice in her head whispering that it had been her idea to go into the Rialto. "I thought the hearing was a formality only!"

"I'm afraid not. Dante wanted you out. No one wanted to make waves with the new Captain, he's got some serious connections, and he wanted your ass bounced pretty badly. There was also the fact that Danny was well liked. The committee was looking for someone to blame, and since they couldn't get Gallo, they would have settled for you." Joe rubbed a hand over his face.

"Why are you just now telling me this?" Sara had gone pale, her jaw tight as she tried to hold her emotions in.

"I hadn't planned to ever tell you this. I knew how you'd take it, but I haven't done you any favors keeping it back. You have no idea how much Bruno hated your dad, and you are too much like him for comfort. He's never going to like or accept you, but I had hoped he would come to respect you professionally, and leave you alone to do your job. From what I've been hearing, that isn't the case." Siri paused, giving Pezzini a hard look. Word was, the attitude was coming from both sides.

"He's an ass, and worse than that, he's dirty Joe. I can feel it." Sara could hardly admit that the Witchblade had shown her visions of a younger Dante taking a payoff.

"You'd better be damn careful where you say that unless you've got some very impressive proof. When I said Dante had connections, I meant very high connections. You could have him on video taking a hundred kilos of cocaine from the evidence locker, or taking a payoff from Gallo himself, and it wouldn't matter. They would say it was part of an investigation, and that you were barking up the wrong tree. Then they'd fire your ass." Joe warned grimly, his face set in warning.

"I'd already suspected there was a conspiracy. I'd thank you for the confirmation, but I can't help wondering how you knew for certain," Pezzini had no intention of backing away from this, but it was breaking her heart to hear Siri talk like that. It meant he had played ball with the same people that owned Dante. What had he done during his stint as Captain that he would have had favors with that crowd?

"Look, you do what you have to sometimes. I was in a position to find things out, usually too late to do anything about it. I used that information where I could to help the department. Where do you think the budget increases last year came from?" Joe paused and raised a questioning brow, letting her know it was not a rhetorical question.

"I thought City Hall had read the reports on the crime increase and agreed we needed more manpower." Sara parroted what everyone had been told.

"Yeah right. Those bastards part with money that they could be lining their pockets with? I don't think so. No, I found out the mayor's son had been picked up for possession. I made a deal with his dad, and the report disappeared. That's just part of it, but you play ball or you get knocked out of the game." Siri looked very tired suddenly.

"Knocked out of the game?" Pez said, still digesting the idea that Joe was not above circumventing the law, no matter what kind of gain he had achieved with his compromise.

"If you're lucky, you just lose position. If not, you or someone you care about gets hurt. If you're very unlucky, people die. Believe me, organized crime is for the ones who can't hack public service politics." Siri looked out the window, unable to face the hurt and disillusionment in the face of the woman he had always regarded as a daughter.

"Why?" Sara choked out, "Why would you get involved in something like that?"

"It's not like I woke up one morning and decided to play poker with the Devil. It's a slow progression of compromises, of trading away pieces of your soul for the greater good until one day you realize you've traded away the last piece and are now part of the evil you were trying to bring down. Once you're that far in, there's no way out."

Joe pushed himself out of the chair and began to pace around the room, his inner turmoil needing a physical outlet. He knew he was hurting Sara with every word, that there was every chance he was nailing the coffin shut on their relationship, but he would rather lose her regard than see her come to the same end as her father.

"Sometimes I can still do good, and sometimes I am too small a fish to do anything but keep my head down, do what I'm told, and survive." Explaining political expediency in the department to Sara was like telling a child there was no Santa. She kept looking at him like she was waiting for him to take it back, to tell her he was just kidding. Unfortunately he couldn't do that.

"Was my dad's death one of those 'keep your head down' times?" Sara asked, hoping for instantaneous denial. When Joe just stood there, looking like a stunned fish, Pezzini had her answer.

"Get out." Sara said, feeling cold all the way down to her soul.

"Sara, it wasn't like that, let me explain," Siri pleaded.

"I think you've said enough. Just leave," Pez turned away from him to stare out the window.

Joe stood there for several moments, trying to think what he could do or say that would break through to her, but nothing came to him. With a sigh he walked out, shoulders slumped in grief. He didn't know if Sara would ever forgive him. He didn't know if he could forgive himself for hurting her, or for failing her and his old partner.

Sara waited until the door closed with a soft click before allowing the tears to fall.


	2. Lining up the Pieces

Chapter 2: Lining up the Pieces

The desk was hand carved mahogany and belonged to another time, when craftsmen took their time and worked for love first and money second. The blonde haired man sitting at the desk had lived through those times, and sometimes he missed them. Today was not one of those days. Kenneth Irons was looking toward the future, planning to secure his position in the ages to come.

Toward that end, several dossiers lay neatly across his desk. Dr. Immo had warned him that while uterine replicators worked in a pinch, they had proved in previous experiments to be inferior to the real thing. It would be best if Irons Junior could be transferred to a human host once the cells had demonstrated consistent mitosis. The results of the search that had been conducted for the perfect surrogate mother lay before him.

Kenneth had found reason to reject each woman, for he already had a womb in mind, so to speak. Sara Pezzini might not be the Wielder any more, but the characteristics that had drawn the Blade to her drew him as well. As they had drawn him to Elizabeth Bronte...

Ah, how he had loved her. It had not been his intent to do so, yet it had happened just the same. For a man who planned his every action, his feelings for the American spy had caught him quite by surprise. Elizabeth had taught him to love, had brightened his cold and analytical world with her fierce and passionate soul.

While Sara was not quite the woman he had loved, as Irons had come to regretfully understand, she was as close as it was possible to get. He had been overly forward when they had met, finding it hard not to react to that achingly familiar face as he had Elizabeth. It had been a tactical error, for he had offended the detective and put her on her guard.

Now he had a chance to change Sara's earlier impression by blaming his behavior on the hold the Witchblade had over him. She had seen how Boucher's errand boy, Sandsman, had behaved. Irons had led Pezzini to believe that it was only his strength of will that had kept him from behaving in the same fashion. His roundabout explanation even had a shred of truth in it, as all the excellent falsehoods often did. After all, the Witchblade had certainly orchestrated a great deal of his life.

He and Elizabeth had not been blessed with children during their time together, although he had certainly tried to talk her into it. For him it had been another path toward immortality, a way to pass his genes along to the next generation should anything happen to him. Elizabeth had thought having a child in a war zone was irresponsible at best, and dangerous at worst.

On this one subject Kenneth could never change her mind. Perhaps it had been the Witchblade, not wanting to share its Wielder with another. Whatever it had been, here was his chance to see that dynastic dream realized at last.

The timing couldn't be better. Sara had been brutally attacked in her own home, and was alive only because of his intervention, in the form of his servant Nottingham. He also was in a position to know that Dante wanted Pezzini out of his hair, and Irons had made it clear to the Captain that he was no longer inclined to object. Sara was vulnerable, she owed him, and she was about to lose her job. It would take very little to push her into his arms, and without the Witchblade to consider, he would be able to bring certain pressures to bear that he had thus far refrained from using.

Once Sara had been removed from the Force, he would have Nottingham see to it that the rest of the late Detective Pezzini's effects found their way into her possession. That should further drive the wedge between Sara and the police department.

Pezzini tended to be obsessed with her vision of justice. Once she found out how high the corruption went, she would cheerfully accept any bargain that would give her the ability to bring the ones responsible for her father's death down. After all, she had already sacrificed her partner in pursuit of Gallo, and he had simply been the triggerman. What else would she give to bring to justice the ones who had given the orders?

Kenneth leaned back in his leather chair and smiled. What indeed?

Fortunately he had already laid a certain amount of groundwork for this plan. Ever one to keep his options open, Irons had visited Sara in the hospital on several occasions. He had offered his condolences and let the lovely detective know that she still had a powerful friend. He had intimated that she could come to him for anything, should she have the need.

Sara had been suspicious of his intentions at first, how could she not? Pezzini could hardly have achieved her current rank without a healthy amount of disbelief, and they had not exactly been allies before. Yet when he held up his now bare hand and thanked her for freeing him from the control of the Witchblade, she seemed to soften slightly. Their conversations had been more amiable after that.

Their mutual experiences being manipulated by the enchanted weapon gave them common ground that Irons was not above exploiting. Who knew? He might have to replace Dante someday, and Pezzini could slide into the aggressive Italian's place...with his help of course.

Irons had only entertained such an idea, looking ahead as was his nature, lining up another pawn to be played or held in reserve as the situation warranted. He was pleased that his foresight had been so swiftly rewarded, for now it would be even easier to bring Sara to his side.

"Ian, clear tomorrow afternoon's schedule. I believe I shall pay another visit to Detective Pezzini. After such a traumatic incident one wishes the comfort of friends," Irons gave his trademark half-smirk, emphasizing the layers of innuendo in his statements.

"Yes sir." Ian lowered his head in obedience, glad for once for the stray locks that fell over his eyes when he did it, for the curtain of hair hid the mixture of fear, confusion, and fury that surely passed across his face.

What did Irons want with Sara now? She no longer wore the Witchblade. Why did he continue to focus on her? Why couldn't he leave them alone? Ian felt his guts twist as his anger fought the conditioning that made him meekly leave the room to carry out his orders.

Nottingham could only hope that tonight Sara would be awake during his visit. He longed to hear her voice again, to see her beautiful green eyes staring up at him. Most of all he needed for her to listen, for there were plans being put into motion that did not have her best interest at heart.

A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews. Thelma, Sara's wounds are from Carmelita. It's been about a week since the end of Tango.


	3. Cold Comfort

Cold Comfort

Still feeling raw and somewhat rebellious after her conversation with Joe Siri, Sara palmed the pills the night nurse brought her. She had done it while the older woman was checking her chart. Since she had been a relatively (for a cop that is) good patient, they didn't watch to make sure she took her meds, but there was no reason to push her luck.

Honestly the only reason Pez had behaved was because she wanted out of the hospital. She hated being dependent on other people, hated feeling out of control, and hated the way she felt suspended, as if this place were some kind of limbo. The world was continuing beyond the pale green walls of this little room, she could feel it, but she couldn't affect it.

Worst of all, she had had enough of her own company.

Sara needed to talk, and Ian struck her as a good listener. He was certainly quiet enough. Thanks to the sleeping pills the nurses kept feeding her, she had slept through his visits thus far, but she knew he had been there. There was a trace of scent she had come to identify as his, a blend of sandalwood, musk, and gun oil that clung to the chair closest to her bed.

Pez had been disappointed that Nottingham never visited during the day, but suspected that he still feared Irons reaction, should he find out about their budding relationship. She didn't blame him for that, given their history. Kenneth was certainly not going to be encouraging. Actually, he was most likely to go ballistic, even though he had no right to be. Sara had done nothing to make the arrogant blonde think she would ever have anything to do with him.

The first night Nottingham had left a single white tea rose on her pillow. There was no note, but Sara didn't need one. The smell had reminded her of Valentine's Day, and Ian's surprising performance. Under the impetus of the tea rose, she had dreamed about that wonderful afternoon. The only thing different in her dream was the ending. It had been deliciously naughty, and Sara could only hope that she hadn't talked in her sleep.

Sara turned the tv down to a low hum, just enough to drown out the intermittent sounds of her neighbors and the nurses in the hall, and closed her eyes. Ian probably wouldn't be here for a few hours, so she decided to nap.

It seemed to Sara that she had just closed her eyes when there was a swirl of cool night air across the room. Even with all the flowers and antiseptic scents in the room she caught a trace of sandalwood and musk. Without opening her eyes, Sara smiled, "Nice of you to drop in."

"Nice of you to be awake." Nottingham closed the window behind him. "Have they finally taken you off the sleeping pills, or did you palm them?"

"Guilty as charged," Sara opened her eyes and tilted her head on the pillow so she could look at him. "It's not like I need them anyway. I'm doing much better. Unless I do something stupid and smack my forearm, it's mostly a dull ache now."

"I am pleased that you are healing. I was... concerned." Ian barely kept himself from saying that he had been more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.

What he had seen when he had broken into her apartment was the stuff of nightmares. The blood, her blood, had been a dark and obscenely glistening cascade that spilled out around her. She was bound and dying and he could not get to her in time, could not save her. Nottingham had failed, and Sara would pay the price for his lack of vigilance.

That she had not was a continual source of relief and joy. Ian did not know what he would do if Lady Sara had died. Most likely he would have followed her in death, living only long enough to avenge her. Not that he was going to tell Pezzini that either. She would not take it well at all.

The depth of his commitment to her still frightened Sara, although Ian hoped that would change. He had to remind himself that it was changing. She was not drawing away from him as she had before. Nor had she threatened to shoot him for breaking and entering. Surely that must mean that things were looking up?

"Concerned huh? Well don't lose any more sleep over it. It will take more than an oversized snake with bad hair to take me down." Sara gave Ian a little half-smile, knowing very well just how close to dying she had been. She owed Nottingham as much as she owed Danny for her life.

"That oversized snake is the least of your worries." Ian sat down in his usual chair, not wanting to seem like he was looming over her as he imparted his information, "Irons has decided to move ahead with a plan that had been put aside, and he's decided you are perfect for it."

"Me? Why, dare I ask?" Sara narrowed her eyes as she glared at Ian

"Please do not shoot the messenger. Irons is coming to visit you tomorrow. I don't know what he will propose exactly, but what he really wants is for you to..." Ian found he couldn't say it. His mouth hung open, the damn words heavy on his tongue, but he could not force them past his lips.

"To?" Sara prompted, mentally bracing herself. If Nottingham was having a hard time saying it, it must be pretty bad.

"Promise me you won't scream." Ian paused and looked at her, realizing her most likely reaction.

Sara looked startled, but then nodded.

"He wants you to bear his offspring." Ian winced, having a pretty good idea how she'd take it.

Pezzini's eyes glowed a virulent green as her hot temper momentarily got the best of her. Nottingham shot one hand out to cover her mouth as Sara drew in a reflexive breath to swear loudly and violently. She went ahead and vented against the leather barrier of his glove, her shock and anger safely reduced to muffled curses. Ian thought he caught the word broodmare among the more common invectives and raised an eyebrow in surprise.

When she had herself back under control, Sara reached up with her good arm and tapped the back of the hand resting over her mouth. When he pulled back she said, "Sorry about that."

"I can certainly understand. I was not pleased when I heard it myself." Nottingham looked anywhere but at Sara, not wanting her to see the roil of fury that washed over him. The thought of her with another, especially the man who he regarded as a father, made him insanely jealous. He was overjoyed to hear she was not excited about the prospect either.

"Why me? Why now? I don't have the Witchblade any more, remember?" Sara had thought Irons interest in her was secondary to the weapon she had worn.

"Ah, but the qualities you had to possess in order to wield the Witchblade are still within you. If I had to guess, I'd say he's trying to breed the next wielder, to have her loyal to him as only a daughter can be." Ian knew all about the way such a loyalty could be used, from close personal experience.

"That would be a pretty good trick, since I would bet the Witchblade is safety tucked away in an evidence locker by now, probably labeled as personal effects of Carmelita Boucher. I don't think it will see the light of day for years, and good riddance." Sara said emphatically. The Gauntlet had caused her enough trouble. Let it rot.

"Please Sara, the security around your Evidence Room is laughable. I could get in there as easily as I do the mansion, perhaps easier. If that is where the Witchblade is, Irons can get it at any time." Nottingham shrugged, trying for nonchalance, suddenly very aware of the weight of the Witchblade in his coat pocket. Now did not seem like the time to tell her he had it. She was clearly unprepared to deal with it, and he knew if he tried he would only push her further from accepting the Gauntlet's return to her wrist.

"I just bet he can." Sara narrowed her eyes as an ugly thought occurred to her. "He's part of it isn't he?"

"Mr. Irons is part of many things, which 'it' are you referring to?" Nottingham leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under his weight.

"The corruption inside the department. Somehow he's tied in to all of that isn't he?"

Sara pinned the shifting assassin with a penetrating glare.

"Oh Sara, that has been around since long before he came to New York, and exists in any city you would care to name, to one degree or another. Irons may have taken advantage of a situation that he found already in existence, but any connection would be tenuous at best."

"Oh yeah?" Pezzini's voice was patently unbelieving.

"Quite frankly, as a man in the upper echelon of society he is above dealing with the police." Sara flushed and opened her mouth, clearly not liking Ian's phrasing, but he rolled right on over whatever she was about to say.

"Please don't be insulted. I am telling you the truth. The chain of command is long but absolute. As long as the Chief of Police is within his sphere of influence, he has no need to mingle with his inferiors." Ian knew this would be hard for Sara to accept, but that didn't make it less true.

"So now I'm inferior?" Pezzini asked hotly.

"From a political standpoint, yes. Why cultivate you when a higher authority can override anything you do? If you had not been destined to wield the Witchblade, Irons would never have arranged for the two of you to meet." Nottingham said, his voice completely neutral in an attempt to explain without offering any more offense.

"Then why has Irons been by to visit me twice since I lost the Witchblade? If he has just now decided to restart this mysterious plan of his, what were the earlier visits about?" Sara pointed out, the detective in her unable to let an inconsistency rest.

"This is Irons we are talking about. He operates on so many levels and has a very long vision. When I was a boy he used to always tell me to consider the consequences of my every action. 'A man cannot touch the petals of a rose without affecting the farthest star,' was his favorite admonishment. Perhaps he wished to be on better terms with you in case the Witchblade returned to your wrist. Or he was looking ahead to a time when you would be more of a political asset, and was working to assure your loyalty now. After all, you have the potential to go far. If you would ever learn to compromise, you might even make Chief some day."

"I'm not sure I would want that. It... doesn't seem to be what I thought it was." Sara found herself thinking of her conversation with Joe Siri.

"Nothing ever is." Ian touched her hand in gentle support, his eyes dark with understanding.

"You can say that again." Sara's lip curled up ruefully.

"Nothing ever..." Ian began, only to be cut off by an exasperated Pezzini.

"It's a figure of speech, Nottingham."

"I was trying to for humor. I have been told I need to 'lighten up', I believe the phrase was." Ian shrugged, disappointed that his foray into humor had not met with success.

"Who told you that?" Sara arched a brow. She couldn't see that bit of advice coming from Irons.

"Dr. Immo's assistant, Ms. Schneikert, actually. She told me I was a nice boy, but I needed to let my hair down and try wearing something other than black." A faint grin crossed his face as he remembered the thin blonde lecturing him.

"Is that why you wore the white shirt? If it is, I owe her a big thank you. That outfit was hot." Sara gave him a look of very feminine appreciation.

"No, I was dressed as the male tango dancers in Argentina were." Ian dropped his gaze, as he blushed, not sure how to take the compliment.

"If you always plan to dress the part, I am going to have to plan for a luau. You'd look pretty darn good in a lavalava." Pez gave him a speculative look, mentally dressing him in nothing but a cotton wrap around his waist.

Uncomfortable at the direction the discussion appeared to be heading, Nottingham tried to get the conversation back on track. "And what do you imagine Irons is going to do when he finds out that we're dating?"

"He's going to have to face up to reality sometime. I am no man's toy. Irons can't just move me around as he sees fit, or convince me to fall in with some grand scheme. There's no way I'm going to play broodmare just so he can get his hooks into the next Wielder." Sara practically spat the word 'broodmare', contempt heavy in her voice.

"It might not be as cold blooded as that though." Ian had to pause for the loud snort of disbelief that came from the brunette sprawled in the hospital bed, "No really. It could just be because you remind him so much of Elizabeth. When the dynastic urge struck, how could you not be his first choice? You two are identical in appearance, and are supposed to be her reincarnation. Perhaps he believes you will come to love him as she did."

"Oh that is so not happening. I only date longhaired, tattooed, bad boys." Sara raised a brow at Ian, knowing he technically fit all three categories.

"I rather doubt Irons will settle for being told he's not your type. Be very, very careful Sara. What Irons wants, he gets. He won't care what has to happen to get it either." Nottingham leaned forward, trying to impress upon her the very seriousness of the situation.

"Are you just going to stand by and let him?" Sara raised a brow, asking a version of the question that had been bothering her ever since she had asked him out. It wasn't quite as rude as, whose side are you on, his or mine?

"I do not know." Ian said softly, his hazel eyes haunted.

Sara closed her eyes, oddly disappointed by his answer. For Christ's sake, they'd gone out a grand total of once. Why did she expect him to go against his very powerful employer for her? When she opened them again, Ian was gone; the rush of cold air telling her Nottingham had taken his normal route.

This leaving in the middle of a conversation was starting to really piss her off.

A/N: Thank you all for your lovely reviews!


	4. No Answers, New Questions

No Clear Answers

Nottingham raced up the fire escape as if he could outrun the demons in his head. The night air was cold, and he drew great lungfuls of it as he climbed. The wind pulled at his wool trench coat, the black fabric swirling around his legs, and snatched at his hair. This was the real reason he wore his hair so tightly confined, there was always a strong breeze at night, and he had no desire to have his vision obstructed by wayward caramel locks.  
  
The hospital was twenty stories, a middling height in a town of skyscrapers, and he reached the top without being the least bit winded. Granted, that was due more to his rigorous physical conditioning than the height he ascended to.  
  
Irons had trained him to be the perfect servant, lethal, loyal, skilled, able to innovate, and yet remain obedient. All his life had been spent in one form of service or another. It was the only thing he knew. The only way he knew how to show his love and devotion...and the only thing guaranteed to drive Sara away from him.  
  
Nottingham's willingness to do whatever was asked of him by Irons made him weak in Sara's eyes, and well he knew it. Her will was so fierce that she could not imagine his position or nature. Pezzini would never bend, never put the wishes of another above her own.  
  
If he had one complaint about his beloved, it was that she was a little too obsessive, too focused on the things that were important to her. If Sara wanted it, she did everything in her power to get it. In that respect she was very like Irons, unable or unwilling to consider the consequences others would pay as they pursued their goal.  
  
It was something Ian disliked in both of them, yet he responded to their demands time and again, giving whatever was asked of him. Irons had conditioned such a response in him from childhood, and Ian was intelligent enough to see it. He even understood how and why Kenneth had done it, but was unable to change his behavior.  
  
What would happen when duty and love no longer ran parallel courses? Before Sara lost the Witchblade, his orders had not strayed too far from his own desires. To be near her, to help her, oh yes, those were directives he had embraced with a willing heart.  
  
To assist his master in gaining the hand and heart of the lady he loved? That he could not do. But how could he leave his duty behind? No matter what his ulterior motives may have been, Kenneth had raised him like a son. Ian had wanted for nothing. His thirst for esoteric knowledge and fighting arts had been more than indulged; they had been encouraged.  
  
He loved Irons as a son loves a difficult to please father, always striving for his approval. Kenneth loved him back, this he was certain of, even if the older man was sometimes distant. Privately, Ian suspected that the Irons family had not been very demonstrative.  
  
Kenneth did not know how to show his love any better than Ian did, but surely the way he had raised and trained him, spending time and vast sums of money, was a clear indication of care. After all, he was the only person with him always. He even trusted Ian with his life. What greater display of faith and love could there be?  
  
How could he choose between them? Eventually he would have to. It was inevitable. Ian had hoped that it would not come to pass, that once Sara had lost the Witchblade Kenneth would no longer desire to possess her. Clearly that was not the case.  
  
Did Irons think Sara still possessed the Witchblade? Was he waiting for her to put it on again, to become the Wielder once more? Ian did not think Kenneth knew the true location of the Gauntlet. Surely he would have demanded its return if he had. A time or two, Nottingham had been tempted to return it to him unasked, in hopes that Irons would know how to restore the 'Blade.  
  
Ian did not know what to do for the Witchblade. Before it had always seemed alive, even when resting on the velvet pad at the museum. Now it was an inert twist of metal with a dull orange stone, filmed over as if by great age and wear. He kept it in one of the many inner pockets of his wool trench coat during the day; afraid to leave it undefended anywhere. When he slept, he kept it in a thin cotton pouch around his neck, hoping that the warmth of his body and the energy of his aura would slowly give it strength.  
  
There had been no change, but it had only been a week. Given the span of time that the Witchblade had survived, Ian was not sure if it just took a while to 'recharge' or if he should be concerned over the Gauntlet's current state. He was not yet worried enough to try anything drastic, like putting it on himself. Assuming the Witchblade did not take his hand for his presumption, he would still be soul bound to the Gauntlet. He had watched the Witchblade maneuver Irons like a marionette across a stage and had no desire to be put in the same position.  
  
What he endured now was bad enough.  
  
With a sigh Ian rolled the Witchblade in his gloved hands. He looked out over the city skyline, a sight that normally brought him peace. Tonight the view failed him, his mind and heart torn. Would love or duty win out? He honestly did not know. For he loved them both well, Kenneth as a father and Sara as the woman he would wish to wed.  
  
Yet his duty to defend Pezzini as the Wielder was predated by his duty to protect Irons, as well as being the chief of security for his company, Vorshlag Industries. What would he do, who would he be, without the complex bindings of a lifetime? Could he put aside the past to pursue an uncertain future with a woman who might or might not come to love him as he loved her?  
  
The questions were complex enough to be answered only by the testing of time.  
  
Ian measured the distance to the next building with a practiced eye. It was not far. Perhaps a run across the 'high way' would settle his mind. The Witchblade went back into the inner pocket. Gathering himself, Nottingham leapt for the neighboring structure. Landing easily, he set out at a flat run.  
  
It was very freeing to race with the wind across the darkened city skyline. Leaving all his worries and doubts behind, Nottingham moved across the rooftops. Soon the world was reduced to the flashes of dark and light, the bricks under his feet, the moon soaring so unconcernedly above his head. The wind danced at his heels, blowing around him like the old friend it was, encouraging him to run faster.  
  
Nottingham automatically watched for danger as he raced. That part of his mind never stopped, never relaxed, even if he was not conscious of it. Those seemingly magical dodges were nothing more than the reaction of someone who instantly obeyed the more primitive part of the brain. If he felt the urge to duck, he did, without wondering why. It had saved his life on many occasions, including now.  
  
Almost to the edge of the apartment building he was currently running on, the animal instinct jerked him up short. Ian went from a full run to absolute stillness. He scanned the area around him, looking for the source.  
  
Something was moving in the shadows on the fire escape of the next building. It was subtle, whatever it was. Even looking for trouble, Nottingham had almost missed it. The assassin froze, watching the darkened metal railing. For long minutes nothing happened, but Ian was as patient as a hunting cougar.  
  
The shadow moved in a slithering gliding motion that, at first glance, seemed like nothing human. Yet Ian had seen others move with similar grace, a handful of men and women that had been trained like him. None of whom he could imagine having business in this area of town. The cost of their hire would be more than the residents of this building made in a year.  
  
What would bring an assassin into this neighborhood? If you wanted someone dead around here, there were much more economical options available. Nottingham watched with narrowed eyes as the figure moved down another level, intent on something below. Deep shadow fell around the fire escape, with only thin ribbons of light passing the railing to give a teasing glimpse of muscles working under cloth.  
  
Ian moved cautiously forward, trying for a better vantage point while remaining concealed himself. Perhaps if he could see what had the other's attention, Nottingham could ascertain his or her reason for being here.  
  
The alley was nondescript, the same hulking metal dumpsters, heaps of garbage, and puddles of wastewater reflecting what little weak light penetrated the gloom that could be seen in almost every alley in the area. The only real point of interest was the light glinting off the spiky blonde hair of Sara's new partner, Jake McCarty.  
  
McCarty was talking to someone that was farther back in the shadows than he was. All Ian could see was the occasional flash of hand as the other person gestured while talking. The agitated movements reminded Nottingham of someone, but he couldn't recall exactly. It was just a nagging feeling that he had seen that pattern of motion before.  
  
Nottingham could hear nothing of the conversation from where he was, being so far out of earshot. In fact, it was a testament to his superior vision that he could see anything at all. He would have liked to move closer, but he was more interested in whom the assassin was following, than to risk detection.  
  
After about five more minutes, Jake reached into his coat and pulled out a fat white envelope. The hand in the shadows exchanged it for a yellow manila file folder. McCarty opened it, rifled the pages, and tucked it into his coat. He smiled, a flash of white, and leaned into the shadows. Ian got the impression he had kissed whoever it was, which couldn't be the case, could it? Then Jake turned to walk out of the alley.  
  
The assassin on the fire escape shifted slightly, tracking the blonde's movement. Although Nottingham had no love for the young detective, he knew if he did not intervene, Sara would take McCarty's death personally. She would beat herself up with 'if only I has been there's', which Ian had no desire to listen to. Even worse, Sara would consider it further proof that everyone around her was doomed. He did not want her pushing him away before they even had a chance, and so he pulled the trigger first.  
  
The soft pfft of his silenced pistol seemed loud to Ian's sensitive ears, but there was no outcry from below. The assassin slumped on the metal stairs in the boneless sprawl of death. His rifle slipped from his fingers and dropped with a loud clatter to the asphalt below.  
  
McCarty spun toward the sound, Glock .9mm out and in the ready position. He scanned the area. Nottingham stayed poised in the shadow, ready to move if he must. The detective did not spot him, but he did see the body on the fire escape. Jake looked higher, tracking possible velocities for whoever had fired. His method was efficient and professional, not what Nottingham would have expected from his previous behavior.  
  
Alarm bells ringing in Ian's head, he moved back from the edge. What was going on here? Then the person with the restless hands stepped out of the shadows, and Ian got his second surprise of the night. It was Christine Vannoy, the Chief of Police's personal secretary. She took one look at the felled assassin, a look of confusion passing over her face before she bolted in the opposite direction.  
  
Ian was tempted to follow her, but he knew where she worked. He could get to her with ease. Right now, he was more concerned with the information she had obviously sold Detective McCarty. What could have been in those files that were worth killing for?


	5. Secret Agent Man

A/N: I couldn't resist bringing back the White Bulls. It was a great plot idea that somehow went by the wayside in Season 2. Well, not in MY reality missy. The Bulls are back, and so the undercover Feebie plotline.

Thank you for all your lovely reviews! They mean the world to me.

Secret Agent Man

McCarty scanned the surrounding area but came up with nothing. He hadn't heard the shot that took out sniper on the fire escape, but dropped gun was hard to miss. The skin between his shoulder blades crawled as he continued to look, anticipating the bullet that somehow hadn't taken him out yet.

When nothing else happened, Jake realized that someone had to have been watching his six. It was the only thing that made sense. He wished whoever it was would give him just a brief flash and a wave, something to let him know for certain, but some of the more hard-core elements in the Bureau wouldn't break cover just to reassure their coworker.

McCarty reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He had to call this in, even though he was pretty sure that his tail had already done so. Just not to the New York City Police Department. Jake didn't know whom on the department to trust, at least not until he read the file Vannoy had given him. Maybe not even then, but it would give him a place to start.

Fortunately, McCarty mused as he dialed, he had other resources to call on. "Mike? Yeah, this is Jake. I need a clean-up crew at Bleeker and 5th. Uh-huh. Nah, the alley between. Got one down. I have to hand it to you, you were right. I'm glad you ignored my protests and put a tail on me. I don't know who my shadow was tonight, but I owe him one."

There was a brief pause, ending with McCarty moving to put his back to the bricks before replying. "What do you mean, there was no tail?"

Jake was a bit spooked, but not so much so that he couldn't do his job. After all, just because no one had been assigned to him, didn't mean someone in the Bureau hadn't decided to cover his ass gratis. It had been known to happen. Hell, he'd done it himself a few times.

Doubtless McCarty would hear from his invisible backup later. This wasn't the X-Files; there were no mysterious benefactors in the real FBI. Whoever had saved his bacon was going to make sure Jake knew where the debt was, in case they ever needed a favor. McCarty just hoped it wouldn't be too huge.

There were some things he would not do, despite being assigned to undercover missions like this one for the Bureau for the last five years. Somehow, some core of decency remained, even as he waded through cesspits of human excess. It was the last holdout of the idealistic young man who had gone into the FBI Academy with dreams of making the world a better place. McCarty had fewer limits than that boy had held, but more than most of his coworkers, despite everything he had seen.

Not that Jake had, thankfully, had his morals tested lately. He'd been working this particular case for over a year without being exposed to anything more than a regular cop would be. His conscience was considerably quieter than his boss had been about that though. His superiors wanted results, and he'd had damn little success. Joe Siri had either been clean, or far cleverer than he let on. Jake voted for clever.

After all, it wasn't until shortly before his retirement that any breaks had come his way. Partnering him with Pezzini was the best thing Siri had done for him. Sara was a real lightning rod for trouble, and she had come to the attention of Kenneth Irons. Men with that much money and power had their fingers into everything. Then there was the bad blood between Pez and the new captain.

Dante hated her with a passion, constantly making derogatory remarks about how she was like her father. Considering how Detective Pezzini, the father, not the daughter, had died, it was pretty easy to read between the lines of the report. Someone had killed him for pushing, for digging after something that his superiors had not wanted him to investigate. That someone might very well have been Bruno Dante, or someone close to him.

Now Dante had begun to sound out just where McCarty's loyalties lay. Those passing comments, occasional 'chats', and the hand on the shoulder for support when Sara was being difficult were all subtle enough. It was amazing how reasonable Dante sounded as he encouraged McCarty to betray Pezzini. If he really were a rookie, no doubt Jake would have fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

As it was, McCarty had played up his hesitance, knowing that Dante wasn't just angling for Pezzini's dismissal from the force. He was looking to recruit loyal men who thought they were doing what was best. Dante had that righteous aura about him. It was hard to explain, but over the years he had developed an instinct for the type of personality that would quietly abuse their power in the name of doing what was right.

The overt ones were caught before they did too much damage by Internal Affairs, but the subtle ones well, there was no easy way to find them. Even if you did, proving anything was amazingly difficult. They always had an infrastructure that supported and protected them. Sometimes that network of likeminded and corrupted souls extended beyond the force that created it and spanned generations, like the Skulls.

Jake was after the most elusive granddaddy of them all, the White Bulls. The word was the Bulls had existed in one form or another since New York had been granted its city charter. It had started small, waxing and waning with the fortunes of time until it had penetrated all strata of the city's political structure, which made it damn difficult to root out.

Not to mention dangerous. McCarty glanced up at the still form on the fire escape, wondering if this meant that he was closer than he thought. Had his cover been blown, or had the assassin been following Vannoy? Christine had been involved in this longer than she had been his contact, and she hadn't exactly joined voluntarily.

Vannoy had told him that it all began when she went to her boss, concerned with conflicting reports and accounting discrepancies. He had been unable to explain everything away, and maybe she should have realized even then what was going on, but she hadn't.

A week later, Christine had been pulled over. Since she had been speeding 'a little', she hadn't thought anything of it. The officer asked her to step out of the car and informed her that he suspected she was under the influence. He searched her, pretending to pull cocaine out of her pocket. The uniformed officer smiled and shook a finger at her, then leaned in close and said, "See how easy it would be to find yourself rotting in jail? It will happen if you keep poking your nose where it doesn't belong." Then he stepped back, touched the brim of his hat and said, "You have a good evening ma'am."

It had terrified Vannoy for a while, she had kept her head down at work and asked no questions. Then she got mad and began copying the conflicting data, collecting names, and waiting. She would happily have turned State's Witness earlier, if she'd known who to trust. Instead she was selling the information so she could get out of town. Jake, not knowing who to trust either, couldn't begrudge her that. He would have to check in with her once the cleaners had arrived, make sure she was ok.

As if his thoughts had been a summons, a beat-up green garbage truck pulled into the mouth of the alley and rolled down to where he was waiting. Two burly men, one white and one black, in city coveralls clambered out of the cab. Jake grinned to see two familiar faces hiding under fake facial hair. Johnson, normally bald as an egg, was sporting dreads under a dirty yellow, red, and green Rasta cap. His partner, Anniston, had sideburns that Elvis would have envied.

"You'n must be the luckiest sumbitch I ever saw," Anniston's southern drawl more pronounced than usual. Maybe it was the sideburns?

"Tell me about it." McCarty invited as he moved out of the way and let the two forensic experts get to work.

Johnson picked up the sniper rifle with a pencil through the trigger guard and bagged it. He held it up to the patchy light, getting a better look at the weapon. "I have to agree with 'The King' over there."

"Thank you, thank you verra much. A-huh." Anniston paused in his climb up the fire escape to swivel his hips and belt out the Elvis byline.

"This is serious hardware, look at all the custom work on this baby." Johnson ignored the showboating, his attention captured by the gun. Coated with nonreflective paint, it was a little pocket of deadly darkness, and it fascinated him. He continued to study it, knowing he had a bit of time while his partner took pictures and made measurements.

"Quit playin' with the toy an' get your butt up heah. I ain't hauling him down all by my lonesome ya'll." Anniston called down when he had finished.

"What did you find out?" Jake asked as he leaned against the brick of the apartment building, keeping an eye out for possible witnesses.

"Boy was a professional, ain't nothin' on him. Sorry. Mebbe when we take a closer look, back't the lab we'll find something." Anniston grunted as he shifted the corpse. Dead weight was exactly that, and getting it into position for a two man carry was a bit of work.

"Shit. Well, it was too much to hope for some answers that easy. This assignment has been a royal bitch." Jake shrugged, glancing up, before returning his attention to watching.

Ten minutes later, the body was safely packed in the back of the 'truck' and the site had been sterilized. McCarty knew they didn't need him any more, so he waved goodbye saying, "See you guys later, I'm gonna check on my contact and call it a night."

The two 'garbage men' waved back as they climbed into the cab. Jake turned back toward the alley and gave a more respectful salute. He knew his tail was still up there, he could feel their eyes.

Up in the shadows of the roof, Nottingham quirked one lip and gave an ironic little wave back. The evening had been very informative. Even with the ridiculous disguises, Ian knew federal agents when he saw them. The fact that he had not made McCarty earlier bugged him, but the other man was clearly very good at what he did. That aura of innocence, those guileless questions, and the sheer stupidity McCarty could project had fooled him.

Had. Now Nottingham knew what he was looking at, and had an idea what must be in that folder. The FBI had been working for years at breaking the White Bulls, but had never managed to penetrate the ring of secrecy surrounding its members. Had McCarty succeeded?

Once McCarty put those files down for the night, Nottingham would have himself a little look. If the information was damaging enough, he would inform Irons and sever all connection with the group. He may have to eliminate the links, but with the exception of Joe Siri, the idea did not bother him in the least.


	6. Knight to Queen 4

DDD

Nottingham was not pleased. The file that McCarty had in his possession had even more information than he had feared, and went back almost two years. For several minutes he considered killing the younger man and destroying the file. It would be a moment's work. Jake might be an experienced Federal Officer instead of a rookie detective, but he was still no match for Ian.

Only two things stood between McCarty and death. First and most importantly, although Vorshlag subsidies were implicated, there was nothing pointing to Irons directly. Secondly, Nottingham knew that it would not end there. A dead federal agent and a missing information packet would be the stick that beat the FBI into frenzy. In the ensuing witch-hunt, no avenue of investigation would be ignored.

Vorshlag Industries could find it necessary to cut loose some of their more lucrative projects to cover their ass. Worse than the lost revenue would be the research setbacks. The amount of data lost, not to mention research models that would have to be destroyed, would irritate Irons to no end.

Which meant McCarty could not die here. Later, perhaps, when his death could be conveniently placed at the foot of someone Irons would not miss. Until then, the blonde was granted a reprieve. Nottingham looked one last time at the data, checking his memory against the paper. Ian had been trained for total recall, but he hardly had any reason to use it these days. The advent of the copy disk had largely cut down on his need for this skill, so he liked to check himself from time to time.

Now it was time to quit procrastinating and report his findings to Irons.

Pqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqp

"The file was very complete. Some of our own people were implicated. Granted, they were mostly intermediaries for projects that we received special considerations for by the city, but the connections are there. That is easy enough to deny personal culpability for; Vorshlag is a huge company." Ian paused. Until now his head had been bowed in his customary posture.

His dark head lifted, and his eyes were lit from behind with a kind of cold hunger, "But Dante and Siri are also named on the file. Both of them have had personal contact with you, and may choose to make a deal in exchange for a lighter sentence. I think they are a security risk, and should be permanently silenced."

Irons locked eyes with his servant, faintly surprised by the personal interest hiding inside a clinical assessment. Why else would Nottingham want the two men dead? There was something else here, and for some reason Kenneth thought it had to do with Sara. Well, well, well. It would seem that Ian was still moved to protect Pezzini, even though she no longer carried the Witchblade.

Filing that bit of information away, Irons shrugged negligently, "That is done easily enough, yet stay your hand a little while. They have a purpose yet to serve."

"As you wish. Yet I ask for permission to kill them if they seem to be preparing to betray you." Ian pressed, not trusting Dante any further than he could see him. The man bothered him excessively. Siri he was not as concerned about, the only way he would talk would be if his conscience suddenly made an appearance. After all these years, Nottingham did not think that would be an issue, but he had known better than to single Dante out with his request.

"Of course you may act in such a circumstance, but I would prefer it if you made any deaths easily linkable to the mayor. That will keep the FBI far away from my business, and besides, the report does detail an unexplained funding shift to the 11th Precinct. Give them someone with a clear motive, and they never look any deeper." Irons shook his head. "Deplorably lazy of them perhaps, but I see no reason not to profit from their nature."

Ian nodded and stepped back, preparing to leave. He had a few more things to arrange before they left for the hospital.

"Ian," Kenneth called in a purring tone, "Let Sara have her father's tape. Leave it for her so that she finds it after we depart. She should be given the opportunity to learn what happened, and where the blame for his death truly lies. Let her confront her father's murderers. I believe the dear woman deserves closure, don't you?"

Nottingham halted his exodus and lowered his head, not wanting Irons to read the anger in his eyes. If he gave Sara the tape, she would pursue the new angle on her father's death. Without the Witchblade, Pezzini had no chance against the White Bulls. They were too many, and their reach too far for one woman to tackle alone. For a moment he entertained the thought of disobeying his orders and taking the tape to McCarty. Let it become part of the FBI's investigation.

Then the moment passed. Ian knew he would not disobey, however much he might wish to. The only chance he saw was in trying to find out why Irons wanted Sara to know now, after all these years. If he could see the trap, perhaps he could steer Pezzini clear of it. "Of course she does, but will it not keep her from accepting your proposal? Sara will have only one thing on her mind, and it will not be romance. She will hunger only for vengeance."

"Yes, but once she realizes that her mentor and her new boss were involved in Detective Pezzini's untimely demise, Sara will turn to me for aid. Which I shall grant... for a price. Once she agrees to my terms, her father's murderers will be brought to justice with my help. Her gratitude will know no bounds, and even if it does, she will still be bound by the debt owed." Irons leaned back in his chair and smiled.

This was chess at it's finest. His knight was about to pin two pieces in place for his queen to come across the board and destroy. It would leave his knight in place to curb her motion as well, to herd her in the direction of his choosing. If she happened to break his knight in the process, well, there was always the other to be put into play.

One way or another, Sara Pezzini would be his.


	7. A Good Swift Kick to Romance

DWD

Sara shifted for the hundredth time, having spent enough time in the bed to find it miserable. The doctor had told her she could go home tomorrow, which only served to make today's confinement perversely worse. Pez found herself checking the clock much more frequently than she had any other day since she had woken up.

Unfortunately, going home did not mean going back to work. The doctor had been very firm that Pezzini could not return to duty for at least two more weeks, and after that it might still be light duty only, depending on how her physical went. The sharp cautioning had reminded Sara that she had another exam to pass, one that would be even more rigorous in it's own way.

Thinking about what Joe had said about how her Psych evaluation was going to go down increased her irritation and sense that she was wasting time sitting here. What Sara had learned about her old captain had nearly overshadowed the warning he had given her. It was hard to shove the betrayal and anger aside and focus on what to do about what Siri had told her about Dante.

It was so hard, in fact, that so far Pezzini had come up with nothing. How do you prove you're not crazy? Between losing Danny and the visions the Gauntlet kept thrusting upon her, she had been acting in a very erratic fashion these last few months. There was no way around that fact.

The only positive thing she could think of to say about her life since November was that her number of cases solved had increased. Being the Wielder might be Hell on her personal life, but it was incredibly useful at a crime scene.

A diffident knock on the door broke into her thoughts. The door opened halfway and one of the officers stationed at her door peeped in. "There's a Kenneth Irons to see you. Should I let him in?"

Detective Pezzini had a reputation for being a real ball buster, and being hospitalized had done nothing for her temper. The uniforms that had been assigned to her had a healthy respect for her rep, and worked hard to avoid bearding the lioness in her den. Sara wondered how Kenny was dealing with the fact that they were keeping him waiting on her pleasure.

For a moment Pez considered sending him away, her discussion with Nottingham had reinforced her feeling that she should have nothing to do with Irons, but Joe had come right out and said she was going to need powerful friends to stay on the force. Besides, she was going to have to break Kenneth of his silly idea of them as a couple at some point.

"Sure, send him in." No time like the present.

The uniform disappeared behind the door, which began to swing shut. Before the wood touched the frame, it swung back open. Hmmm, impatient are we? Sara quirked an eyebrow and wondered exactly what his approach was going to be.

Nottingham was first through the entrance, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment. The chocolate brown depths held such a maelstrom of desire, confusion, and anger that Sara did not know what to say. Fortunately she said nothing, as his employer was not far behind him.

Irons strode in, his lips stretched in an affable smile. "Sara, you are looking much better today. I daresay they are going to be letting you go home soon."

"Tomorrow morning." Pezzini nodded in agreement. Thankfully she had never been much of a talker, as Kenneth was as good at using what he heard as any prosecuting attorney Sara had ever met.

"Excellent. I'll have a driver waiting to pick you up at, shall we say, nine?" Irons settled himself on the uncomfortable metal and sea green cloth chair as if it were a throne.

"Thanks but no thanks. The department is sending over a car." Sara stuck her chin out, not liking to be steamrollered into anything.

"A patrol vehicle yes?" Irons gave a moue of distaste. "Well, if you would prefer to ride in the back of something that has held so many unsavory persons, that is, of course, your prerogative."

"When you put it like that, it doesn't sound very attractive does it?" Sara grinned ruefully.

"No matter how one phrases it, I cannot imagine how one would consider the back of a police car more pleasant than reclining in the peaceful luxury of a limousine." Kenneth shook his head, his tone one of good-humored confusion.

The only time Sara had been in a limousine she had been shot at, which put it right next to her time spent driving a squad car. Before that however... Sara shot a glance at Ian under her lashes and found him staring at her with the same hunger she had felt in those blissful minutes before the shooting started. "On second thought, I will take you up on that ride, if it's not an inconvenience."

"It is no inconvenience, I assure you." Irons stretched his lips in another of those not-quite smirks, he intended to gain much more than he was going to give. Much more.

Sara narrowed her eyes at Kenneth's smug look. She suddenly felt like giving him a swift kick. "It is very kind of you to offer. After the Witchblade abandoned me, I had thought you would follow its example. I know I don't do gratitude very well, but I want to thank you for sticking by me. I don't know what I would have done without your guidance."

Ian looked up in shock, his eyes wide. Irons continued to smirk. Sara smiled beatifically, even as her eyes were darkening with malice. First, the setup, now for that kick, "I've come to think of you as a father figure."

Oh yes, that got rid of that smirk quite nicely. Kenneth looked as if he had ruined his handmade Italian loafers by stepping in dog shit. Sara continued to smile at him as he recovered. Irons face smoothed back into affable lines, but his eyes were as dark as she had ever seen them.

Pezzini waited, wondering how he would get out of the neat little trap she had just sprung. It was even better than the 'friend speech', because it allowed absolutely no room for hope. To be seen as a parent implied a total and complete lack of sexual interest. Sara would have loved to glance over and check Ian's reaction, but knew she had to maintain eye contact with Kenneth to project her sincerity.

"I am pleased to be held in such high esteem, although it is hardly the position I expected. You have never evinced such feelings before." Irons kept his voice level, but inside he was seething. He wanted her to be the mother of his children, not consider herself his child.

"Oh but I did. A child begins by believing their parents know everything, progress to thinking they're being unnecessarily mysterious and restrictive, then comes the rebellion against anything they say, and finally the idea that your parents aren't your enemy. We've gone through the stages at an accelerated rate, but that doesn't make it any less real."

Kenneth leaned back in the chair, turning over what Sara was saying in his mind. After that disastrous initial meeting, he had toned the seduction down and changed his demeanor to that of a mentor. Clearly that had been a mistake.

As if reading his mind, Sara continued, "You have only yourself to blame you know. You've been treating me like a daughter all along, trying to teach me, catching me when I fall, always there for me, even when I'm being a brat. "

"You have been as willful and difficult as a child, that is true, but I have never considered you to actually be one." Kenneth began, his tone a little tart, wanting to subtly steer her back in the right direction. He could turn this around with a bit of work. Get her thinking Pygmalion instead of Oedipus.

"Yeah right. I know there is a huge age difference between us; I've seen pictures of you with Kennedy. You can't possibly help thinking of me as a kid. Don't get me wrong you don't even begin to look your age, you've taken great care of yourself, but the 'generation gap' is actually more like a canyon." Sara tilted her head slightly and grinned. She was having far too much fun picking on Kenny. It was great payback for all the times he'd given cryptic answers to her questions.

"Fortunately, such differences are often bridged. A strong foundation of understanding can be constructed, and built upon in the future." Kenneth said suavely, although his thoughts were far more volatile.

A canyon? Irons fought to keep the frown off his face. As Ceto had pointed out, there were ways to circumvent mortal limitations. No matter the year this body had been born, he was still a man in his prime. His actual age should make no difference to the way Sara reacted to him.

When had Sara seen pictures of him with Kennedy anyway? That was one of the difficulties with this age of information, there were too many obviously datable pieces of information archived out there. Given her reaction, Irons could easily imagine her reaction should Pezzini learn that he was thrice again her age. No doubt he would be treated to more broken bits of juvenile wisdom.

"Ugh. Don't talk about construction on bridges. Do you have any idea how much that slows down traffic?" Sara decided to deliberately misunderstand Kenny again, just to watch the vein pulse in his temple. She didn't get the reaction she had been hoping for. Instead of twitching with further irritation, Kenneth's countenance smoothed.

"Sometimes a delay is needed for the betterment of one's situation." Irons said thoughtfully as he stood. The sentence was more for him than for Sara, but he looked down at her anyway. Let Pezzini think he was counseling her again, instead of voicing his assessment of their relationship.

"I've never been the patient sort. Waiting has never done me any good." Sara grumbled, mostly disgruntled that she hadn't gotten the reaction she wanted.

"Yes well, this whole experience has to have been very unsettling for you. It may take a while for you to recover, to see clearly again. You may yet discover the virtues of patience." Irons wandered in the direction of the door, pausing along the way to examine the bouquets that overflowed every available space.

"Fat chance." Not being able to really cross her arms, Sara brought her good arm over and laid the bad one across the top. It got her point across. Her mood was no longer receptive.

"I will leave you to your thoughts. You should use this time to think most carefully about your future. I have heard some disturbing things about your precinct, things that make me think you may have to exercise that virtue which you profess to have so little use for." With that cryptic parting shot, Kenneth let the door close behind him.

Ian hesitated as the door swung shut. He knew he was supposed to leave the video for Sara to find. During her conversation with Irons he had set the tape down and picked it back up several times. The video was up his sleeve at the moment. From there it could be easily and discreetly set down wherever he chose, yet the tape remained where it was.

Nottingham just couldn't bring himself to let it go, even though part of him believed Sara should be given the tape. It just didn't seem right to do here in a sterile environment, with nothing familiar around her for comfort. Even worse, Ian knew she would watch it alone. He knew he should wait until Pezzini was home before giving her the video. He had that much leeway. Irons wouldn't expect Sara to see the tape right away, or to act on it if she did.

Decision made, Ian slid his hands in his pockets, letting the video drop from his sleeve to a better hiding place. Casting his mind back to the conversation Sara had had with Irons, he lifted his gaze to hers. 'Canyon?' he mouthed, lips turning up in a boyish grin.

Mindful that Irons could very well be eavesdropping outside the door, Sara carefully shrugged and grinned back.

"You picking me up tomorrow?" Sara asked softly.

"I don't know. I hope so. Get some rest, you look a bit flush." Nottingham replied just as quietly, and then headed out the door. He could feel the video slapping against his leg as he walked, but knew it was only his conscience making it seem so obvious.

As Ian had thought, Kenneth was waiting right outside the door. Irons was holding himself quite rigid, his ire a palpable thing. Nurses gave him a wide berth, and the two uniformed officers were very careful not to look at him.

"Quit dawdling Nottingham." Irons snapped and stalked down the hall.

Normally Ian would have been cowed by that tone, but he kept remembering Kenneth's face when Sara told him that she thought of him as a father figure. He did not think he had ever seen Irons bested so thoroughly.

It would appear that Kenneth had forgotten how formidable the lovely detective truly was. This round had clearly gone to Pezzini. He just hoped Sara could hold the ground she had gained. Irons was as twisty as any serpent ever hatched, and her record with snakes was not exactly reassuring.

Thinking about snakes made Ian wonder if they had heard the last of Ceto. Her daughter, Medusa, had been vanquished, but could such as she truly die? Nottingham had the uncomfortable feeling that she had simply been reborn, much as the Wielder was wont to do.

Nottingham had assigned a team to look into Carmelita Boucher's family, another team to research Ceto, had brought in a specialist to build up the Mansion's warding against supernatural beings, and he still wasn't happy. The condition of the Wielder Room had given mute testimony to how badly they had underestimated the patience and will of the ancient serpent. It was a mistake he was not going to make again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Jade, glad you're enjoying the series. I am working to keep everyone in character, and keep the tension between the three dynamic. Which way will Ian go? A wise man once said, 'You can never tell what someone is going to do until they've done it.' We shall see. Thelma, Dragongrrl, as Moon says, Kenny didn't get this far by playing nice. Don't you just love it? Heh. Moon, ya know I love ya babe. How's the eye doing? IcyFlame, that was a HARD chapter to write. I've complained elsewhere about how hard it is for me to get a handle on Jake. I almost gave in to weakness and didn't put him in the story so prominently, but I have to be fair. He has his place in the tale, and maybe by the end of this I'll have a better idea about how McCarty works. Alys, welcome to the wild world of fanfiction. Hope you are enjoying the ride, and I hope to hear from you again. Another note to Dragongrrl, thanks for what you said about Ian's inner monologue. That was another tough chappie to write. I wanted to show how he could be torn, after all, his relationship with Irons doesn't seem very healthy from our outside view.


	8. In the Bullpen

Jake McCarty was burning the midnight oil. Captain Dante had not reassigned the caseload that he had shared with Pezzini, even though she was in the hospital. Normally a rookie like he was supposed to be would not have been left alone to work, especially homicides.

When Jake had objected to the deviation from policy, Dante had told him, "You've been doing all the work anyway. Don't think I don't notice what goes on in my own house. Pezzini's been shluffing most of this stuff off on you and getting the credit for your work. I want to see you get the recognition you deserve."

As idiot rookie-boy, Jake had nodded and thanked his captain for his faith. Inside, McCarty had felt a grudging respect for Dante's manipulations. Oh, not the flattery, although that had been a nice touch, but for the inevitable frustration Jake would feel as he tried to keep up with the workload. That frustration would turn into resentment of Pezzini with very little guidance, and Bruno was lending a helping hand in that department.

Every night the captain made a point to stop by his desk to do so, and tonight was no exception. Dante walked into the small office, his sleeves rolled up and his collar undone. His jacket was slung across his shoulder, giving the whole visit a casual feel. "How's the Venner case coming?"

"I don't know Captain. Maybe you should give the case to one of the other guys. I've hit a brick wall here." Jake sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand to telegraph just how tired he was.

"You're working too hard. Come on; let's go to Cherry's and grab a beer." Dante leaned a hip on the paper-strewn desk.

"Sounds good," McCarty pushed his chair back and stood.

Jake could feel that old familiar jangling of nerves. Was his cover blown somehow, or was Dante still feeling him out for membership into the White Bulls? After reading the file Christine had given him, McCarty knew his captain was very high in the 'herd'. How high he could not guess, but he hoped to find out.

They didn't go far. The bar, favored by a particular contingent of off-duty officers, was a mere two blocks away. The weather was nippy, but not harsh enough to warrant driving, so the two walked in companionable silence.

Cherry's was a small pub, tucked into the corner space of a brick and wood building that looked like it had been built during the latter part of the 1800's. The mortar had been patched over the years, but the separating brickwork just added to its picturesque façade.

McCarty pushed open the wood and leaded glass door, wondering how many of the cops inside were Bulls. Once inside the dimly lit pub, he began to think that all of them were. The place was not full, but there were a great many more cops present than anyone would expect, given that it was a Tuesday night.

A chill shot down his spine as he registered the numbers and their relative quiet. Instead of the boisterous noise of cops letting off steam, the place was filled with the soft murmurs of private conversations. He could not hesitate, nor go back, however much he wanted to. Dante had not given him any reason to think this was anything but a friendly drink, so rookie boy would have to walk into the lion's den with a smile.

Even if he felt like he'd been slathered in steak sauce.

Dante led him to a small table near the back. A waitress appeared as soon as they were seated, two glasses of beer already on her tray. She deposited them with a grin for Dante and a wink to Jake, and then sashayed back to the bar.

Playing the part, Jake leaned back and watched her go with an appreciative smile on his face. It was a nice view, but not one he personally would have been distracted by. A cute ass did not come before business, unless it was business. Once McCarty felt that he had looked long enough, he turned his attention back to Dante. "She's pretty hot."

"I think she likes you." Bruno leaned back with a grin.

"Yeah? Too bad I've got no time to take her out. Man, my personal life is nonexistent these days." Jake took a swig of his beer and leaned forward confidentially, "You know what kills me? I spend all this time doing paperwork, and the perp walked hours before I will finish filing. Sometimes I feel like the one being punished, ya know?"

"We've all been there, the sacrifices, the long hours, the danger, and for what? The people want justice, but they don't want to be bothered with taking care of the folks taking care of them." Dante shook his head. "There are a lot of good cops in this unit, family men, risking their lives every day. And for what? Huh? A couple thousand dollars a year? You can't send your kid to community college on the money that we make."

"You got a solution for that?" Jake felt his pulse quicken. Finally, finally, they were taking the bait. His patience was about to pay off.

"You ever hear of the Praetorian Guard?" Dante asked.

"Roman soldiers, right? Some kinda elite fighters?" Oh McCarty knew all right, he was fascinated by the achievements of the Roman military, but rookie boy's idea of ancient history was Jan and Dean.

"They were the hand-picked bodyguards of the Caesars, but eventually they became so powerful that they could overthrow the Caesars if they felt it was right. Now, could you imagine belonging to a unit like that?" Bruno smiled and rolled the base of his beer in a loose circle on the table.

"Big responsibility," Jake heaved a breath as if contemplating it.

"We already shoulder that responsibility, whether you know it or not. What I'm suggesting is... We embrace it." The captain leaned forward now, the intensity in his eyes pulling at McCarty, who rubs his face. He appears discomfited by the direction the conversation is taking.

"Maybe I shouldn't be drinking, considering how much sleep I HAVEN'T gotten lately.. Could you be a little more specific?"

Dante knocks back his beer and sets it off to the side. "This is a one-time-only invitation to join a group of policemen who understand the gravity of their job and who reap the harvest fairly."

"You mean you're vigilan...." Jake pauses as the waitress comes to the table with two more beers. She waits while he knocks back the last of his glass and takes it with a flirty smile. The blonde gives her a smile back, "Thanks."

Bruno waited until the waitress was out of earshot once more before continuing. He had a curl to his lip as if he'd tasted something bad. "No. Sara Pezzini's a vigilante. She's a solo act."

"What have you got against Sara anyway?" Jake asked, eager to see if his theories were close.

"Well, Pezzini and me, we go way back. I mean, actually her dad and I go way back. Didn't have the talent to do the job and rise, so he stuck his nose up everybody's ass all the time."

"That's not Sara's fault." McCarty kept his face earnest, even as the little voice in the back of his head began to gloat. Yep, old man Pezzini must have been hell on wheels.

"She's got the gene, though. I can smell it." Bruno leaned back, disgust written all over his face.

"Whatever." The response was ignorant surfer at its best.

"Whatever nothing. That prick shot my partner." Dante leaned forward again, old anger pushing him into Jake's space to make his point.

"What?" McCarty's eyebrows went up in shock.

"Jim Pezzini got hooked on a hooker who happened to be a favorite of a guy I was riding with." Dante's eyes were flashing and his hands started moving for punctuation.

"Get out." Jake leaned back, projecting more shock.

"Yeah, it was one of those ... uh ... lover's quarrels, you know? A real romantic triangle, and on a vice raid, Jim Pezzini put one right between Ralph's eyes. The Review Board whitewashed it as ... uh ... an accident." The last was heavy with sarcasm.

"Ok, but persecuting Sara doesn't ..." McCarty started to say, glad that his cover was supposed to be so gullible. This was such a pile of crap. The captain cut him off before he could get very far into his defense.

"You know what? I really admire your ... uh ... loyalty, McCarty. I really do. Even if it is misplaced," Bruno's tone implied dire things for an overly trusting Jake in the hands of Sara Pezzini.

"I can take care of myself." McCarty drew himself up in his chair as if resenting the implication.

"I know you can." Bruno paused meaningfully, "So could Danny Woo."

For a long minute silence reigned at their little table. The muted conversations around them were like the crashing of waves on a distant shore. McCarty absorbed the implications and felt his gut twist. How many men had Dante corrupted with his insidious bits of truth and innuendo? The desire to hang the captain out to dry rose up inside him, yet he could not think of anything in character that would redirect the conversation toward the White Bulls without tipping his hand.

Bruno waited until he thought he had made his point, and then continued, "But we protect each other."

Dante reached into his pocket, without breaking eye contact, and pulled out something small. His fist was closed around it, hiding the object from view. He held his closed fist up slightly, pulling Jake's eyes from his. Once Bruno was certain the young detective was looking at his hand, he sets the bullet on the table.

Jake picks up the bullet, not sure where the captain is going with this, ".45 Magnum. I use a 9 mil."

"Look closer." Dante smiled indulgently, making a shooing gesture with his hand.

McCarty raises confused eyes to the older man for a moment, then does as he's told. He turns the bullet in his hand and sees that it is engraved. A thrill of excitement shoots through him for it's, "A bull."

"It's our totem, our talisman. We call ourselves the White Bulls." Dante looks proud at the statement.

This was like Christmas. But Jake needed to continue to play stupid, not like the shark that had scented blood in the water that he was. "Why a bull?"

"You know what the bull symbolizes?

"Power, masculinity ... manure?" McCarty laughed at the last part, hoping the captain would laugh with him. It would show that they both were at ease with the situation, as well as let off some of the tension.

Dante leaned back and laughed with Jake, his posture relaxing as he did so. "Yeah, you could say that. So would my ex-wife."

"So how's it work?" McCarty asked as he rolled the bullet in his hand. It was a bold move on his part, but hopefully it would pay off. He needed more than a secret society name. That would never hold up in court.

"When someone is obviously guilty and the system can't be trusted to administer justice, we use one of these bullets. Now, if you ever find a casing like this at a murder scene, just walk away. And if there's fruit to harvest, we take it. We watch each others' backs." Dante made it sound so noble, as if they weren't talking about playing judge, jury, and executioner.

"Damn." Jake said softly.

Dante just nodded sagely and said, "Yeah."

"The White Bulls huh. Seems pretty damn hard-core, risking everything for your ideals like that. Not a lot of people would do that." Jake invited Bruno to tell him more.

"Not just ideals, Jake. What we risk everything for is people," The captain seemed very firm on that point, but didn't give away anything else.

"That's very noble." McCarty tried again. A little ego stroking usually worked wonders in this kind of interrogation. People love to talk about how smart or clever they are.

"Nah, not really, considering the first people we take care of is each other." Bruno shrugged and took another swig from his bottle of beer.

Crap. Looks like it's time for some leading questions. "So you ... what? Skim the first count at a robbery? Cop some drugs? A little protection here, a little graft there?"

"Jake, what do you think happens to stolen money that we recover? Say, you know, drug money ... After a trial?" Dante said patiently, as if to a particularly dense student.

"I never thought about it." Now it was Jake's turn to shrug, even though he knew perfectly well what he was going to hear. He'd heard it before, from more than one corrupt official.

"It gets destroyed. Incinerated. Now why shouldn't it keep my dad out of a home or send your kid to NYU? Huh? Now, you wanna call that stealing? I don't." The fire was back in Dante's voice. He felt very strongly about this waste.

"What do you call it?" Jake fired back, not wanting to seem to eager a convert, but wanting the captain to know he was not unsympathetic.

"Justice. Balancing the scales." Dante brought his hands up in illustration of the basic inequity of the situation as it stood. "Why shouldn't we have it instead of destroying the money? Why should all those punks have money for breaking the law and those who were to enforce it had none? What do they do with it anyway? I'll tell you, they spend it on drugs, whores, tricked out cars and gold teeth. Oh yeah, and firepower. The same weapons you will be on the wrong end of every day of your life."

"Tell me about it." Jake twitched. That was something that bothered him, no matter which persona he was that day. The average cop was outgunned on the street, with automatics and worse so very easy to get on the black market.

"Listen Jake, this invitation is offered to you one time and one time only. Are you in?" Dante asked.

"And what if I say no?" Jake asked, mostly for clarification. No way was he going to turn this down. He was going to break these self-righteous bastards, and they were going to help him do it.

"Well, we'll both forget this conversation ever took place." Dante's voice hardened.

"That sounds like a threat." Jake leaned back, hoping he hadn't overplayed his hand. He hadn't thought the captain was that defensive?

"We never threaten. We have a code and we never break it."

Well, that could be taken a couple of ways. Best to move along and leave that comment alone. Jake settled for a more neutral question, "How was I chosen?"

"Very carefully. We never invite anyone to join who doesn't accept." Dante shrugged, a secret smile crossing his face. He gestures to the bar, where the waitress is rolling silverware. Once he has her attention, he rubs two fingers together. She nods and walks over, pulling their tab out of the short apron she's wearing.

Dante and Jake both pull money out of their wallet at the same time. The captain puts a hand over his and says, "No, no, no. It's on me."

"Thanks. It's been a hell of a day." Jake hesitates with the bill in his hand, then puts it away. If he drops the bill, he's declaring his independence. As much as he hates letting this slime pay for anything of his, McCarty knows he needs to for the charade.

"Yeah, a life changer," Dante agrees with a knowing smile as he watches Jake put his money away.

"How long do I have ... to decide whether to come to your party?" Jake says, conscious of the waitress, who might still be within earshot.

"Well, the samurai say a decision should be made in seven heartbeats. We're going to give you a little longer, but not much." Dante knows he's got McCarty. He can let the boy have his illusion of choice. In the end, he will come to the Bulls. Bruno can see it in his face. Indeed, Jake's next question proves it.

"If I agree, then what?"

"Well, every good thing has its price. There would be an initiation of sorts. A way for you to outwardly display the change that has taken place inside you, kind of a baptism." Dante lays a brotherly hand on McCarty's shoulder.

"By fire?" Jake gives his captain a sharp look.

Dante leaned closer, this part was for McCarty's ears only, "We'll discuss it when you ... uh .. when you accept. But I'll tell you one thing. Your price of admission will ... uh ... concern Sara Pezzini."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

A/N: I know it's been a while. Have I complained that it's hard for me to get a handle on Jake? Thank you for your reviews, please keep them coming. It makes all the frustration and lost sleep worthwhile.


	9. Building Blocks

Destiny

Sara had thought she would never get to sleep. The knowledge that she was going to be allowed to check out of the hospital was like Christmas, with guns. Yet at some point she slept, for she opened her eyes to see Barbara, the nurse who had the morning rounds, coming in the door.

A scuffed blue duffel bag was slung over the blonde woman's shoulder, which Pez instantly recognized as hers. Through long years of exposure to public servant patients, the hospital policy was to keep the clothing in a locker instead of leaving it in the room. It was a good deterrent to self-checkout, as no cop or fire fighter wanted to be seen running down the street with his ass hanging out.

"Thanks," Sara said grudgingly as she held out her good arm to take the bag.

"Welcome," Barbara grinned back, used to the surly attitude by now. Detective Pezzini was just like every other cop she'd ever checked on, unable to deal well with the idea that they couldn't do everything they wanted to. She turned away to let the brunette dress in peace, but ready in case she should need help.

She didn't. Sara managed to pull on her clothes with only a few hissed profanities, mostly when putting on her bra and pulling her arm through the, thankfully, short sleeve. Ready to breathe the fresh air of freedom, Pezzini shoved her feet into the black Nikes and headed for the door. "I am so out of here."

"Whoa there hoss. You can't leave until the paperwork's done." Barbara chuckled as she held a clipboard between Sara and the way out.

"I thought you guys said no work for two weeks?" Pez grumbled, but grabbed the clipboard and started reading.

"You know I'm going to miss you." Barb rolled her eyes as she waited for Sara to sign and initial in all the right places.

"Like the Plague," Sara curled one side of her mouth up.

"Yah," the blonde held out her hand as Pezzini finished scrawling on the release form.

"I'd like to say it's been fun, but I'd be lying." Sara grinned at Barbara as she brushed past her on the way to the door. She was one of the few nurses here that Pez got along with. The others just didn't seem to have a sense of humor.

"Keep that up and I'll talk one of the orderlies into bringing all these damn flowers to your apartment instead of the incinerator." Barb just shook her head and watched Sara go. She didn't think she would be hanging around either, not if she had Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hunky waiting in the lobby.

Sara breezed down the hallway, the now-empty blue bag slapping against her thigh as she walked. She waved to the two officers who were stationed outside her door. They hopped up and followed her down to the elevator.

"So, you guys going home with me or what?" Sara asked as she waited for one of the elevators to arrive on her floor.

"Just as far as your ride Detective. The press has found new sensations during your recovery period, but it is never wise to underestimate them or their resources. Someone may have tipped them off to your release and we'll have to wade through them at the door or something." One of the uniforms was grimacing. Apparently he'd had run-ins with the press before.

"All right then," Sara replied.

The steel doors opened to a normal hospital lobby. People were doing their best to be comfortable as they waited, leafing through old National Geographic Magazines and glaring at other people's ill behaved children. No reporters came rushing up to pester the detective as she and her escorts walked toward the exit. Inside Sara's head a little voice was singing, 'Free! I'm free!'

Waiting at the curb was a long black limousine. Nottingham was standing at attention beside the vehicle. He was wearing what Sara had come to think of as his 'uniform', black on black on black. From his watch cap to his jump boots, everything was black. During her stay in the hospital, his beard had grown back in. Now he looked exactly like he had the first time she met him in the museum.

Then Ian raised those expressive hazel eyes to hers and the illusion of sameness shattered. Sara knew that neither of them were anywhere near to being the people they had been at the museum. They had both changed and grown so much since that day. Had it really only been three months? It felt like forever.

Nottingham opened the car door, his gaze never leaving hers. Pez might have been impressed by that little trick, but she had seen him do much more. Besides, she was too caught up by the unspoken promise in eyes gone amber with desire to notice anything else.

The envious whistles of the two officers echoing behind her, Sara descended the concrete steps to the waiting limousine. It was a far cry from the squad car that the department had intended to send, but Sara would not have cared if it had been a beat-up old Pinto. The only thing that mattered to her in that moment was that Ian had come to get her. Her heart was beating faster, her pulse racing as she drew nearer to the dark-haired man waiting so chivalrously at the side of the limo.

With a wicked little smile Pezzini made sure to brush against Nottingham's hard form as she moved past him to slide into the buttery soft leather seat. She could hardly wait to be alone with him again. Sara wondered what it would feel like to kiss Ian with the beard. His lips were so soft. Would his beard be too, or would it be slightly abrasive?

"Good morning Sara." The cultured, urbane, voice of Kenneth Irons rolled over her like a wave of ice water.

Eyes wide in surprise, Pezzini mumbled a far from heart-felt, "Same to ya."

Sara looked back at the door as it closed, catching the apologetic look on Nottingham's face. He was sorry? She had to sit back here with the man who would not take a hint, and he was sorry? Ian did not know the meaning of sorry, but he would. The thought comforted her as she shifted, doing her best to maintain some distance. How on earth could such a previously roomy vehicle come to be so cramped?

The ride went just as badly as Sara had suspected, but not worse than she had feared in her worst-case scenario. Irons would never do anything so tacky as engage in a frontal assault, but the seemingly casual touches were annoying enough to set her teeth on edge.

The only thing that kept her from pleading temporary insanity and trying to bludgeon him to death with one of the bottles from the wet bar was the feeling that Nottingham might have been right. There was something under the arrogance, a genuine care for her well being that Irons was working very hard to hide.

It didn't make Kenneth's flirtations any more welcome than they would have been from anyone else Sara wasn't interested in, but between Ian's reminder about Elizabeth being the love of his life and the painkillers, the ride was mostly uneventful. Sara did her best to discourage his interest, rehashing the daughter angle when Kenny got to close to her.

When the limousine finally stopped, Sara didn't wait for the door to be opened. Instead she burst out on her own, breathing the cold air of the city. Even though it carried the scent of exhaust and decay it was the sweetest thing she had ever smelled.

"Thanks for the ride. I know how busy you are, so I won't invite you up. Besides, I doubt there's anything left in the refrigerator worth serving. See ya around." Sara stretched her lips in a smile as fake as her hearty tone as she looked back at the open door of the limo.

"As you wish, but do consider what we discussed Sara." Irons leaned back in his seat. He knew better by now than to push her. The detective was very skittish when it came to relationships.

Since she had no idea which part of their conversation he was talking about, Sara just continued to smile and nodded. Pezzini turned to her apartment building as Irons leaned forward to grab the leather-padded door. She was surprised to find Nottingham was ahead of her, and holding the entrance to the complex open.

"Aren't you supposed to have a key for that?" Sara asked sarcastically as she moved forward. She was a long way from forgiving him for leaving her trapped alone with Irons the whole way from the hospital to here.

"I have never found it necessary." Ian lowered his head, knowing very well why he was in trouble. It had not been what he had hoped either, but at least her treating him in such a fashion in front of Irons should keep the older man from suspecting the truth of their relationship, if the gloating look Kenneth shot his way was anything to go by.

"Ian, I want you to be at Ms. Pezzini's disposal today. She will doubtless need assistance righting her affairs, and I have meetings all afternoon." Kenneth smirked, pleased with the opportunity to be magnanimous without having to do any of the work himself.

It also put Nottingham in a position to see how she was really doing, whom she contacted, and what she was thinking. His report should be very revealing. Even better, Sara could wear out that bad temper of hers on his servant instead of him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Sara normally took the stairs to her apartment, just for the exercise. That wasn't happening this morning. She was already so tired, just from a round of verbal judo with Kenny, that it was gonna be an elevator ride this time. She pushed the button, aware of tall, dark, and sulky standing behind her. She wasn't up to dealing with him right now either.

Maybe she could send him out shopping while she took a little nap? Mmmm, sleep. Sara leaned her forehead against the wall while waiting for the elevator. Very distantly she could hear Nottingham calling her name, but she ignored him in favor of the blessed darkness behind her eyelids.

"Sara," Ian watched in concern as the brunette started to sway. She was falling asleep. Obviously Pezzini had overdone already. With a sigh Nottingham reached down and scooped her up in his arms. This was not what he had in mind when he had envisioned spending the day holding his lady.

It was no hardship to carry Sara thus, although it did take some judicious juggling to keep his hold on her and unlock the door at the same time. Finally they were inside, and Ian wavered over where to put her. The bed might bring back bad memories, even though he had ordered it replaced.

Well, Sara had mentioned wanting to spend their second date watching movies and eating Chinese, so the couch it would be. First he sat her in a chair and changed the futon from couch to bed. Then he picked her back up and deposited his lovely burden on the folded-out couch. Alone.

Ian stood there for a very long time and watched her sleep. He reached down and brushed a lock of dark hair back from her face. She was so beautiful. Nottingham didn't think he would ever tire of gazing upon her, but he knew that there were things to be done.

Reluctantly Ian tore himself away from Sara's side and headed for the part of her loft that was set up as the bedroom. He looked the area over with a critical eye. He had hired a crew that specialized in cleaning up after crime scenes to come in and remove all signs of the battle, and they had done a very thorough job. Giving a nod of approval, Ian opened the closet and pulled two blankets off the shelf. He didn't want his lady to become chilled while he went to the store.

There was never real food in Sara Pezzini's apartment. Unless you counted coffee, which Ian did not. Sara would need to eat healthy; she had lost a lot of blood and was still weaker than she liked to admit. He intended to pick up lots of steak, spinach, and other foods high in protein or iron. How she managed every day on a diet of chilidogs and cheeseburgers he would never know.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Sara woke to the most heavenly smell of grilling steak. Her stomach rumbled loudly, breakfast at the hospital had been reconstituted eggs, stone cold, a fruit cup, and a glass of juice. She had not eaten much of it, and what she had was long gone. Pez started to untangle herself from her comfy nest of blankets, with every intention of seeing if the food she smelled was ready to eat.

Sitting up, Pez was relieved to find she was on the futon, not in her bed. She wasn't sure she was up to dealing with the memories that would arouse. Although with the way her stomach was complaining, she could probably eat the mattress right now, even while having nightmares. Sara padded on stocking feet toward the kitchen, which had been transformed.

Gone were the empty take-out containers and dirty coffee cups. In their place were pans she wasn't sure she owned, and matching dinnerware that she was sure she didn't. The plates were forest green with a thin band of black at the edges; very elegant in their simplicity, and so not something she would have bought, although she liked them.

Poor Ian must have been horrified by her cabinets, which held only mismatched dinnerware that she'd picked up at Goodwill, and even that had been solely for having something to reheat things in the microwave with. What could she say? Sara Pezzini did not entertain in her apartment. It was a place to stow her stuff and sleep, not a home.

Home had been her father. Once James Pezzini had died, the house had held too many memories. Sara had not been able to bear keeping it, nor to replace it. The apartment was a good compromise, and the space being an open loft made it even easier to keep from making comparisons.

The dishes belonged in a home.

It was stupid, but Sara felt her eyes burn with tears over the green plates nonetheless. They had become the catalyst for all the things she had been thinking about in the hospital. Pez was not the kind of person who had a home, but the longer she stood there, she began to wonder if she wanted to be. What would it be like to live in a place that was full of love?

The sound of the front door opening startled Sara from her thoughts. She dashed a hand over her eyes, hoping that it would not be obvious that she had been crying. Plastering a smile on her face, Pez turned around, "Mmmm, everything smells so good."

"Thank you, Lady Sara," Ian narrowed his eyes as he spoke. Sara was upset about something, although she was trying to hide it.

Was she displeased because Nottingham had taken over her kitchen? He hadn't asked permission; he had just started cooking. Considering the state of the area, he hadn't thought Sara would care. Maybe being in the hospital had made her prickly about her own space? No, if she were that kind of upset, he would have heard about it by now. Sara wasn't shy about sharing her anger. She seemed... sad, wistful almost, although he couldn't imagine why, or for what reason.

"No, thank you Ian. If you hadn't been here, I'd have been calling Manny's for take-out." Sara moved further into the kitchen, peeping into the various pots and pans.

"You need to eat better. There is very little nutritional value in fast food." Ian scolded as he moved past her to add the rosemary he had just bought to the carrots. He didn't know why he had expected there to be spices, considering the lack of food to be had.

That lack had forced Nottingham to run back to the little corner store for everything but salt, pepper, and oregano. That was ok, it hadn't taken long, and nothing had burned or boiled over while he was gone. Besides, he had needed to go back to the store for tv trays. He had forgotten that Sara tended to eat everything at the little bar that was part of the divider for the kitchen area, and so had no proper table.

Ian would be damned before he'd go to all this work only to lose ambiance by eating next to all the dishes he'd dirtied up to make said dinner. "Go sit back down, dinner will be ready soon."

Sara was only too willing to head back to the futon, so she could pull herself together. Why was she so emotional today? She had thought that being back on her own turf would make all those doubts and second-guesses go away, but it hadn't. If anything, being surrounded by familiar things only made the sense of wrongness stronger.

Pez really didn't like her existence. She couldn't in all fairness call it 'her life'. Danny had been right to berate her for not living. She hadn't been. Sara wasn't sure how to go about changing that, but she knew that she wanted to. She also knew, looking back with affection at the man clanging around in her kitchen, that whatever came she wanted Ian to be part of the life she was going to build.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/N: Jade, if only we could all have one of our very own. wickedgrin .We haven't heard the last of Kenny, but Sara is as determined to get her way as he is. Dragongrrl, Ian can only do so much. When Sara sees that tape... Can we say 'fireworks'? I thought you could. LOL Thelma, I agree. All art has its moments of frustration. I could just do with a few less of those moments, but it was my choice to write Jake in, and I will abide by that decision. (even when it causes me to beat my head on the keyboard) Ketcat, be afraid. Be very afraid. I have to follow the plotline of Season 1 to a certain extent after all. Moon, I just saw your Jake story. Do evil minds resonate across vast distances or what? Granted, your Jake is different from mine, but what are the odds that we would both take on that bottle-brush haired chimera at the same time? waves to all my reviewers Thanks for leaving your thoughts with me. I appreciate every one!


	10. Here Kitty Kitty Kitty

Chapter10

"Dinner was wonderful Ian, thank you." Sara gave a sigh of contentment and pushed her almost empty plate back.

She couldn't eat another bite, even thought the asparagus had been tender and the steak done to perfection. Even the cooked carrots, which Sara normally did not care for, had been good. When Ian had put the rosemary in the steamer with the baby vegetables, she had been skeptical, but the first bite had shown her that Nottingham knew his stuff.

"Ah, ah Sara, you're not done yet. You've still got a few carrots left there." Ian pointed with his fork at the remains of a largely demolished plate. Sara had eaten better than he had expected, but he couldn't resist the urge to tease her a little. She was so open and relaxed that Nottingham had found himself following suit.

"If I eat another thing, I'll burst," Sara giggled. The red wine had been a little heavy, with a slight pepper finish, but it had gone very well with the steak. Perhaps too well, as she had drank two glasses relatively close together, hence the giggles.

"Does that mean you don't want your dessert?" Ian teased.

"That all depends. What's on the menu?" Sara arched a brow and asked suggestively.

Ian blushed. He could feel the heat creeping up his cheeks and he hated it. He did not want to appear callow and inexperienced, even if he was. Rallying, he stood with his lap tray and said, "If you don't eat enough to keep up your strength, it won't matter what I have prepared. You'll be too tired for it."

"You sure know how to motivate a girl," Sara chuckled as she watched Ian retreat with his dishes.

Wishing she had a potted plant or a pet to fob the last vegetables off on, Pez tipped the carrots onto the floor. Keeping an eye on Nottingham's broad back, she kicked them under the couch. When he turned around, Sara set her fork back on the green china and pretended to be chewing. After an equally pretended swallow, she held her now-empty plate up with a naughty grin.

Narrowing his eyes, Ian stared at the china. Sara had not eaten those carrots, he was sure of it, but he could not see them anywhere. He hoped she had not stuffed them under the cushion or one of the pillows; the idea of putting his hand in squished carrot during a romantic moment was not a pleasant one.

"Why don't you put in a movie while I do the dishes?" Ian asked as he came back for her lap tray.

"I'd rather you did me and left the dishes," Sara muttered to herself in a pout.

Ian suddenly found his hands would not work. He fumbled with the tray twice before getting a grip on the laminated wood. He didn't think she'd meant for him to hear that. It took all his will not to act on the softly spoken statement. Nottingham carried the tray back to the kitchen, only a fine trembling of the china as he walked betraying the fierce inner battle that was taking place.

His body was more than willing to take Sara up on her offer. It rejoiced at the thought of touching and being touched so intimately by his beloved. His head was awhirl with the ramifications of such an act, torn between wanting and fearing what she offered. His heart, traitorous paranoid beast that it was, was not willing at all.

Ian would not settle, no matter how wonderful it would be to merge his flesh with hers, for a purely physical proposal. If all he wanted was sex, there was any number of women that had let him know they were available. If it was all he had wanted from Sara, they could have had sex months ago. Detective Pezzini lived in the moment, indulging casual lusts whenever she chose. She would have fucked him and forgotten him at any time.

She still might. Ian knew perfectly well that sex now would ultimately be disastrous for them. For all that they wanted each other, physical intimacy would scare Sara away from emotional and mental intimacy. She did it all the time with the other men that had come and gone from her life. They got sex or a relationship, but never both, and Ian was not going to settle for anything less than everything.

Nottingham slammed the tray down with more force than was necessary. Just because he knew better, didn't mean he had to like it. Feeling frustrated, Ian washed the dishes with short jerky movements, trying to get himself under control. It would be so easy to push her back on the couch and...

"Hey Ian, you about done in there? I've got the movie cued up." Sara called, the remote in her hand.

It had taken her a while to figure out just what to watch, but in the end 'Dune' had won out. Intrigue, politics, genetic engineering, it just seemed like the perfect choice. Besides, Paul rebels against the destiny chosen for him and that was a lesson Sara thought Ian could stand to learn.

"Just a minute," Ian said over his shoulder.

For a long moment he stood there, doing his best to pull his mind away from its contemplation of what Sara would look like under him. The plan. Remember the plan. Slow and steady, until Sara can't imagine life without you. It was a good plan, a sound plan. Yeah right. Ian gritted his teeth and tried to think about anything but how amazing kissing and caressing the beautiful woman reclined on the futon would feel.

Nuns. Brussels sprouts. Hairless cats. Dr. Immo in a pink tutu.

Once Nottingham had reined his libido in, he turned reluctantly to the couch. He wasn't sure his willpower was up to sitting next to the woman of his dreams for the next few hours without losing his mind. He sat on the far edge of the couch, pretending it was to keep from bumping her injured arm, but knowing that it was really because he didn't trust himself.

Sara reached over and turned the lamp off. The only light now came from the television, flickering over their faces as the opening credits began. "Have you ever seen 'Dune'?"

"I have not." Ian's voice was clipped, and he was sitting as still as stone.

"You're in for a treat then. It's very good." Sara smiled at his perfect posture.

Didn't the man know how to relax? Well, she'd just have to set a good example. Sara twisted around until she was lying facing the television. She shoved a pillow under her chest and snuggled down. This was perfect movie-watching posture. She nudged him with her elbow, "Hey Ian, relax will ya?"

Nottingham looked down at the brunette sprawled so comfortably. "I am not accustomed to... relaxing."

The pause had been very revealing to Sara's trained ear. So, Ian was having personal space issues was he? She buried a grin in the pillow. Poor boy, he was going to have to learn how to deal, because she wasn't going anywhere. "Oh come on, it won't hurt you to kick back."

"Maybe later," Nottingham temporized.

"Suit yourself," Sara shrugged and turned her attention to the movie. Ian would relax eventually. It was like luring in a stray cat, pretend to ignore it and the feline would come in all by itself.

Twenty minutes later Nottingham was completely absorbed in the movie. Another ten minutes after that and he had joined her in sprawling across the futon. "Good kitty," Sara murmured.

"What?" Ian asked absently.

"Nothing." Sara gave a broad smile and leaned into the warm body so close to her own. She savored the warmth of his frame, and breathed deeply of the subtle fragrance that was uniquely Ian.

qpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqp

A/N: Erin, sorry sweeting, this is gonna be at least as long as Tango. I really set myself up for some serious plot issues this time out. Moon, I'm not going to ask how I came to be using your dishes. It's that 'evil minds think alike' thing again. Thelma, yeah, Kenny isn't reading this situation very well, is he? Well, there are none so blind as those who will not see. Dragongrrl, you just know Kenny doesn't give up easy. Icy, you are in for some serious fun then. More Jake and more plot complications coming up! ; D


	11. Poison and Pusscats

Destiny

Chapter 11: Poison and Pussycats

Warning: There be kissing. If it bothers you, don't read the last half of the chapter.

Bruno Dante glared at the paperwork on his desk. The piles bred when his back was turned, he was certain of it. He loved being in charge, but he hated this part of his responsibility. Oh he'd still do it, especially since it covered his ass, but there were nights when he just couldn't look at another page. Tonight was one of those nights.

If he had to read one more report, Bruno would not be responsible for his actions. This made it the perfect time to go check on McCarty. He had magnanimously allowed the rookie an entire day to think it over. Surely by now Jake had come to the right decision. Dante pushed his chair back with a sense of relief.

Making a quick stop at the coffee pot, Dante nodded to Orlinsky, letting the older man know what he was doing. The detective waited until his captain had walked into Pezzini and McCarty's office before standing. He carried an open file with him, pretending to be pacing and reading, but was actually making sure that no one would interrupt Dante.

The captain shut the door behind him and sat on the edge of McCarty's desk. "So, what did you decide?"

"Look, you're not going to ask me to do anything that would hurt Sara, right? I mean, I know she's a bitch, but she's still a cop." Jake knew he sounded like an idealistic moron, but that was the role he had chosen.

"She's a menace to other cops, you mean. Come on Jake; let's be honest here. If you didn't think she was hot, you wouldn't care what I wanted you to do." Bruno said bluntly.

"Yes I would. She's my partner, and partners take care of each other." McCarty protested, knowing how much Dante liked displays of loyalty, even if he felt they were misguided.

"Pezzini has dropped the ball too often, and it's always her partner who's left with his ass hanging out. That doesn't sound like someone I'd want to ride with. Aren't you afraid that one of these days her hot-dogging is gonna get you a spot next to Woo?" Dante pushed off of Jake's desk and paced, his arms flying with the intensity of his delivery.

Suddenly he stopped and put both hands on the desk. Bruno leaned down into McCarty's face and whispered, "Or worse, some complete innocent? Can you live with that detective? 'Cause I don't think I could."

"No." Jake bowed his head, as if in guilt. He kept it down until he was sure he had his face under control.

Inside he was seething. Pezzini was a lot of things, hot tempered, intolerant of anything that went against her personal code, domineering, and sometimes just plain bitchy. None of that made her a bad cop. In fact, they were necessary skills in a job this tough. Except maybe for the temper, but that was probably caused Sara's work environment. In a department where she was encouraged and guided by her captain, that might not even be an issue.

If the White Bulls had their way, it would never happen. The only way the Pezzinis of this world had a chance was if these bastards went down. This was part of what kept Jake on the job, all the good cops who were getting screwed for sticking by their convictions.

"All I want is for my people to be safe, and that means getting Pezzini off the force. With your help, I can do that. Are you with us?" Dante's voice gentled.

"I'm in," Jake said, glad he'd had the foresight to bug his own office. Everything Dante said would be another nail in the Bulls coffin.

"Welcome aboard. Now I know that you have concerns about what I want you to do. Relax. I think your imagination ran away with you. I don't want Pezzini dead. I just want her gone. So here's what I want you to do..." Dante leaned forward, keeping one eye on the door.

Jake clenched his fists under the desk as the man who was supposed to be the moral compass for the department poured poisoned words in his ear.

qpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqppqpqpqpqpqpqpqqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqp

The loud synthesizer music of the final battle pulled Sara from her unintended slumber. She opened eyes she hadn't realized she'd closed. The Fremen were riding their worms through the storm, attacking the Imperial troops. Pez glanced over at Ian and found his attention totally focused on the movie.

Enjoying the opportunity to watch him for a change, Sara gave a sleepy smile. Ian really was a hottie. It gave her a little thrill to see him sprawled out on her futon like he belonged there. Her eyelids were still heavy, and she closed them for a moment, basking in the rightness of the moment.

When she opened them again the movie was over. Sara was a bit upset with herself; she had wanted to watch Ian's face when Paul told off the Reverend Mother. Maybe he would want to talk about the movie, and she could get his reaction then? Pez turned her head to ask Nottingham if he had liked the movie, and found his face was inches from her own.

The faint flickering light of the television played over Ian's face, his eyes dark and mysterious. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward. His lips brushed Sara's softly, testing his welcome.

Sara was surprised that Ian had taken the initiative. He never had before. It was nice to see him gaining confidence. Although Pezzini liked to call the shots most of the time, that didn't mean she wanted to be in sole charge of the relationship. What she wanted was a partner, not a patsy.

As the kiss deepened, Sara gave up on coherent thinking. Ian's lips were a familiar softness but the brush of beard and slight tickle of mustache were new. She fell into the myriad sensations, head tilting slightly to afford him better access. His tongue traced the curve of her lower lip before nipping it, just hard enough to send shivers down her spine.

Ian curled a hand in her hair, which he had not been able to do that night in the limousine. It was like wrapping his hand in warm, living silk. Impulsively he broke the kiss to bury his face in the rich brown locks and breathe deeply. Her hair smelled faintly of citrus, no sissy floral scented soap for Detective Pezzini. The lemon verbena blended with something subtler, an indefinable aroma that was all Sara. To Ian it was headier than the most expensive of perfumes.

"You smell incredible," Ian murmured against the delicate shell of Sara's ear.

Pez shivered in response and shifted restlessly against the hard body pressed against her own. She ran her hands down his back, reveling in the feel of hard muscle under the knit cotton of his black turtleneck.

Ian arched under her hands and purred in approval of her exploratory touch. Hesitantly he slid his hand out of her hair and followed Sara's lead by stroking down the line of her spine. She felt so good; he could hardly believe this was real. He turned his head slightly and kissed her neck, lips lingering over the rapid beat of her pulse.

Sara fisted her hand in Nottingham's hair and let her head fall back. Ian accepted the mute invitation to continue, kissing his way across her collarbone. He moved a little lower but was stopped by the fabric of her t-shirt. Remembering how it had felt to watch Sara slide down his body when they had danced, Ian decided to return the favor. He shifted back slightly, giving himself room to move. His head pulled back last, but not far.

At first Sara thought Ian was ending their embrace before it had begun, but when she opened her eyes she could see that was not the case. The heavy eyes, the flushed cheeks, the slow feline way he moved all spoke to her of a man in the grips of strong desire.

His breath was hot through the thin fabric of her shirt. Sara watched as he shifted downward, not knowing what Ian was going to do next. When he began to follow the curve of her breast, breathing through his open mouth with the barest hint of space between them, she trembled in anticipation. Just watching that dark head descend over the faded NYPD tee was more erotic than it had any right to be. He wasn't even touching her and her nipples were drawn tight under the blue cloth.

When his hand moved cautiously up from her ribcage to brush the side of her breast, she gave a wordless moan of encouragement.

To Ian's untrained ear it sounded like pain. Had he somehow jolted her stitches? He jerked his hand back as if it had been burned. He had not meant to go so far. A few kisses yes. How could he not wish to taste those honeyed lips? But he had to stop now, before the throbbing in his groin overrode his brain completely and he forgot about her arm again.

"Sara, I have to stop. Your wound," Ian was surprised to hear how rough and unsteady his voice was.

"Is fine," Pezzini all but snapped. Frustration made her cranky, and Sara was as turned on as she had ever been in her life. Her whole body was vibrating with tension.

"It might be now, but I would not trust me so much, were I in your place. Your kisses have a way of making me forget about everything else." Nottingham was so wrapped up in guilt that he said more than he had intended.

Sara stilled, temper blunted but not completely gone. "It does, does it?"

"Hallows the soul right out of my body," Ian agreed, peeping up at her through dark lashes.

How could she stay angry with Ian when he looked at her like that? Said things like that? It was rather flattering to realize that she affected him so strongly. Flattering, and exciting. Sara took a deep breath and fought the urge to pounce. Ian was right. Her arm was not up to the wild ride she suspected their first time together would be.

"So it's a spiritual thing?" Sara teased gently.

"Mind, body, and spirit in the most complete blending I have ever experienced." Ian covered her lips with a finger as she moved to reply. "I know such talk makes you uncomfortable. I will not speak of it again."

Feeling suspiciously like the little boy in 'Princess Bride', Sara shook her head. "I don't mind so much." Not anymore. Maybe not ever again.

A/N: Thank you all for reviewing. Erin, sorry it's been so long between posts. It takes me twice as long to write something with Jake in it. I have to rewrite it a few times before it sounds right in my head. I have every intention of finishing this, but I may slow down on posts a bit as we go into the holiday madness. Camyde, Thelma, Dune is one of the best written books I've ever gotten my little hands on. I reread it almost yearly. BorntoFire, I miss the series too. Hopefully this chapter will help tide you over until TopCow gets the movie made. (for anyone who hasn't heard about this, go to from the Texas Wizard Con. Cindy, well, it was better than 'Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day'. LOL  Ian always reminded me of a big cat too. It's the way he moves. Meli-Chan, glad to have you along for the ride. Sara won't go quietly, the Force is her last link to her father. Dante is going to have a fight on his hands, even if he is holding most of the cards. Pezzini, nice to see ya again, and thanks for the review.


	12. Lancing Old Wounds, Promises to the Dead

Chapter 12: Lancing old wounds

Nottingham could hardly believe his ears. Had Sara just implied that she was willing to hear how he felt? He surreptitiously pinched himself to see if he had fallen asleep watching the movie and was now dreaming.

"Go ahead and say it," Sara smiled at the shocked face in front of her.

"Say what?" Ian felt his breath catch in his throat. Did she really want him to tell her how much he loved her?

"I know you want to say it. It's written all over your face." Pez teased, enjoying the look of consternation his face.

"What is written all over my face?" Nottingham found himself stalling. He had not expected her to be willing to hear that she was all he could ever hope for, and now that she was, he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"Who are you, and what did you do with Sara Pezzini?" Sara said, then gave in to the urge to laugh her head off.

The bottom of his stomach dropped to somewhere around his knees as Nottingham contemplated the close call he had just had. Sara didn't want to hear about the love he had almost professed. Ian gave her a sickly smile in return, but fortunately she did not notice as she had closed her eyes while laughing.

"Well you have to admit that it didn't sound like you. I was wondering if you should have had the wine with dinner, it might have reacted adversely with your pain medication." Ian pulled his dignity around him like the trench coat he was beginning to miss.

"I'll have to give you that one, but I don't think it was the wine. I did a lot of thinking in the hospital. Not much else to do there, you know." Sara rolled her eyes, "So I thought about all kinds of stuff."

"Such as?" Ian asked hopefully.

"Oh, just the things someone who's had a near-death experience contemplates, I guess. Life, death, family, friends, the nature of the universe, that sort of thing." Sara shrugged.

"Dare I hope that may become the norm instead of the exception?" Nottingham sighed, thinking they still had quite a way to go.

"As disturbing as I find the concept, it seems to have become a habit." Pez grimaced. Things had been much simpler back when she had been consumed by her job.

"Is it so very unpleasant?" Ian asked softly. He had noticed the face.

"Everyone in my life dies, Nottingham. I use work to keep from dwelling on all the people that I've lost. I feel abandoned and alone, and worse, that somehow it's my fault that my life is like this." Sara stood up, too irritated to sit still, and began to pace. The blanket dragged behind her like the train of some ridiculously oversized dress. "So yeah, thinking too much sucks ass."

"Oh Sara, did you learn nothing from your time with the Witchblade? Those you love are not forever lost; they are waiting for you on the other side of the Veil." Ian caught her hand as she passed, turning her so that she was forced to meet his eyes.

"But they're not here NOW," Sara wailed, "and I miss them so much."

One hand came up to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed away the tear trailing from her eye. "I am here, and I promise, I am not going anywhere."

"How can you know that?" Sara asked, her voice full of pain and anger, She shoved both her fists against Nottingham's chest as the tears began to fall in earnest. "How the fuck can you possibly promise something like that?"

"Love is stronger than death Sara." Ian said softly, his eyes filled with the peace that comes only from working through great pain. "I will never leave you."

Sara said nothing, wet green eyes searching solemn brown for long moments. She could see that he was serious, that he believed. In that moment, Pez knew that he really truly loved her. Her. It was the proverbial straw on the camel's back. Sara dropped her head onto his chest and cried with the abandon of a heartbroken child because she could. Ian would not judge her, he would only support her and understand, and that was enough.

All the grief she had held in, all the fear, all the pain, it came pouring out like the festering poison it was. Her knees buckled, and Ian lowered them both to the futon. He held her in his lap, which no one had done since her father died, so many years ago.

Pez cried until her eyes burned and her head ached. She felt hollow and light, empty really. She was vaguely aware of the hands stroking her back and the soothing murmurs against her ear. Exhausted, she let Ian lull her to sleep.

Ian smiled down at the top of her head, which was snuggled against his chest. He was, quite possibly, more proud of Sara than he had ever been. It took great strength to carry such burdens alone, but it took a great deal more to share them. He was sorry for her pain, but glad to see her begin to heal.

His shirt was soaked from Sara's tears and the clammy fabric was uncomfortable. Careful not to waken her, Ian shifted the brunette head to a pillow and eased out from under her. He pulled the blanket snugly around her shoulders and turned to peel the damp fabric off. Just as he had the shirt halfway over his head, the distinct humm of his cell phone vibrating in his jacket reached his ears.

Fumbling, Ian jerked the cotton turtleneck off his head and grabbed for his jacket. "Hello?"

"Are you still with Sara Pezzini?" the suave and urbane voice was rendered a bit tinny by the receiver, but there could be no doubt as to whom the speaker was.

"Yes I am. She is sleeping on her couch. The bed appears to hold bad connotations for her at the moment, as you had anticipated. In fact, she has done little today except sleep. There have been brief bursts of energy, but they are swift to end." Ian said softly, watching Sara to see if she would stir.

"She called no one?" Irons seemed surprised.

"No sir. The only thing she has done today has been a little grocery shopping and watched a movie." Ian could not understand why Kenneth would think that Sara would have been on the phone. She rarely used it for anything other than to call in delivery orders.

"Did she give you any indication that she has seen the tape yet?" as Irons asked, the first question clicked for Ian.

No need to ask which tape Irons was talking about; Kenneth thought that Sara would be calling in favors to start the process for hunting down the White Bulls. "No sir. I do not think she has seen it yet."

"On what do you base that assumption?" Irons came as close as he ever did to snapping.

"If she had viewed the brief documentary, surely she would have confronted me about it." Nottingham fought back a sigh.

"Why should she come to you?" There was suspicion and a twinge of possessiveness in that hissing question.

"I seem to be her usual target when something happens she does not understand." This time Ian let his exasperation and frustration at being Sara Pezzini's personal whipping boy color his response.

"An unenviable position to be sure," Irons tone was coolly amused. "And Ian, make sure she sees that tape. Soon."

"Yes sir."

As soon as Ian hit the end button, he began pacing and muttering under his breath. If he did as he had been told, their relationship would be over. She would never ever forgive him for keeping the tape from her all these months. Hell, years. The tape had been in Irons hands since one of his people had attempted to air it on his television station back when James Pezzini had been killed.

----------------------------------------

Promises to the Dead

McCarty couldn't sleep. He was too upset. It was unprofessional of him, but no matter how many times he reminded himself of that, it did not make the least bit of difference. This case was getting to him. Ok, had gotten to him. His objectivity was shot to Hell.

"Damn it," Jake muttered as he threw back the covers he had so optimistically gotten under two hours ago.

The bug in his office was not sensitive enough to pick up whispers, if it were set that sensitive; any conversation would have to be picked out of the sounds of fabric rustling and other 'background' noises. So the evidence against Dante was not as strong as he had hoped. In fact, the tape mostly made the captain sound like a concerned superior who was worried about his people.

It wasn't enough to get a conviction, even with the files from Vannoy. On something like this, you really had to have the offenders hemmed in with facts until they didn't have any room to maneuver. Otherwise they wiggled right off the hook and back into the cesspool they came from.

Bile churned in McCarty's gut at the idea of this bunch of bastards getting away. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep, and he knew it. He pulled on a pair of sweat pants and headed for the pile of paperwork he had sprawled across the bar in his kitchen. He might as well work if he was going to be up anyway.

Sitting on top of his files was a black plastic videocassette case.

Jake froze. That had not been there when he went to bed. Someone had clearly broken in while he was lying in his bed trying to sleep. How the Hell had they managed that without him hearing? McCarty eased back into his room, knowing better than to search a darkened apartment without a gun, wondering if his intruder was still here.

Glock .9mm in the ready position, Jake searched every inch of his apartment. He found nothing out of place except for the videotape, sitting in its position of honor on the bar. Still confused about the whole thing, McCarty dusted the case for fingerprints. Surprise, surprise, there were none.

Leaving his latex gloves on, Jake opened the case. Inside was a videotape, one of the thirty minute kind that film crews used during the eighties. Wondering just what he was going to see, McCarty fed the tape into his VCR. There were a few moments of anticlimactic static, and then the recording began.

"My name is Officer James Pezzini, New York Police Department, badge number 7945." The man speaking seemed at the end of his rope. Desperate, tired, but unwilling to back down. It was a look McCarty could all too easily imagine on Sara's face.

"The date is February 22, 1984. If you're watching this ... it means that I'm already dead. And if I am, the likely reason is I've been working to expose a corrupt secret society within the New York P.D. They call themselves the White Bulls."

Jake snapped his finger down on the pause button. He didn't want to miss anything, and just now the blood was pounding in his ears so loudly, he thought he might. He paced back and forth in front of the frozen image, one hand running distractedly through his hair. On a good day the spiky blonde strands stood out from his head like an electrician who'd grabbed a hot line. By the time he had paced off some of his excitement and pushed the play button again, McCarty looked like someone had been dragging him through hedges, backward.

"They rule by intimidation. They, they abuse the badge in every possible way. And this" James Pezzini paused to hold up a spent shell casing, " is their trademark. They use this round when the Bulls want to assassinate one of their enemies. If one of their members finds this shell at a murder scene, he'll desist in his investigation of that crime. And they're currently in a renaissance, led by this deadly band of new young recruits ... most notably this rising young sergeant by the name of Bruno Dante."

Jake hit the pause button again as everything fell into place. The White Bulls, using Tommy Gallo as the triggerman, had killed James Pezzini. It was too bad Gallo had taken that little walk off the balcony. The criminal element had damn little loyalty in these situations; he probably would have spilled his guts to remand his sentence. It was almost a certainty that Dante had given Gallo the job himself.

What if Tommy hadn't committed suicide? What if Gallo had been pushed to keep what he knew from coming out in a trial? Who else had they killed to keep their secrets? Apparently there were others who knew what was going on, but with examples being made like that, how would he ever get them to come forward?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Jake buried his head in his hands. He was going to need help, and his original choice, Sara Pezzini, was too close to this one. She would have absolutely no objectivity with this. In fact, he'd be hard pressed to keep the fiery detective from capping Dante right in the squad room.

Jake stared at the screen, memorizing the face of a man who knew he was going to die for doing what was right. James Pezzini had made this tape before McCarty had even thought about going into the Academy. Hell, in '84 he would have been a freshman in high school. But it didn't change the feeling in the blonde's gut, the one that was screaming that they had all let this man down.

"I won't let it happen to her. I'll get those bastards for you, and I'll get your daughter out of this alive, I swear." Jake whispered to the screen. He didn't find anything odd in what he was doing; he had made a lot of promises to the dead during the course of his career. So far, he had kept every one.


	13. Sepia Snake Dreams

Destiny

------------------------------------------

Chapter 13: Sepia Snake Dreams

Sara was sitting against a tree; she could feel the roughness of the bark against the skin of her back. Grass tickled her legs, was refreshingly cool against the soles of her feet. The air was fragrant with exotic blooms and the sky was the perfect blue of midsummer. Cicadas droned in the distance, adding to the feeling that it was a lazy afternoon.

For a time all was peaceful. Then the cicadas suddenly ceased their calling. The complete silence was eerie, and little prickles of alarm raised the hair on the back of her neck. Sara looked around in alarm, not knowing where the danger lay, but certain it was near.

"Did you ever wonder why the Witchblade could only be worn by certain women?" the hissing voice came from the rippling wave of grass to her left.

Scrambling to her feet, Pezzini reached automatically for her gun, only to touch bare flesh. She was stark naked, without so much as a stick for defense. Watching the grass with a wary eye, Sara replied discouragingly, "No."

"It is becaussse of the Tree, of courssse." A large brown serpent pushed through the last of the tall grass and slithered past her legs.

"Already heard this part," Sara yawned, masking her fear behind bravado.

"Part is not all." Ceto chuckled as she wound her way up the huge trunk. "If it were, you would have sssserved my will from the beginning. After all, the Witchblade is blood of my blood, and it isss now yoursss asss well."

"Hello, no Witchblade," Sara waved her bare wrist at the serpent.

"It doesss not matter. You wore it long enough for the Gauntlet to weave itsss way through flesssh and sssoul, it hasss changed the weft of your very moleculesss. Jussst becaussse you no longer wear the Blade, doesss not mean you will revert to that which once you were." Ceto reached a branch and slithered onto it.

"Look, I don't care what it did or didn't do to me. I'm a cop, I was a cop before that thing found it's way to my arm, and I'm still one now that it's gone. That's the only thing that matters." Pezzini glared at the snake.

"Can you yet be ssso naïve? You have been ressshaped into a tool for thossse with the power and the knowledge to ussse you. Without the Witchblade to protect what it hasss wrought, you will find yourssself very open to outside influence." Ceto looked down from her branch, stiff serpent face somehow conveying smug amusement.

"What a pile of shit. I haven't worn the Witchblade in nearly two weeks, and I'm just fine." Sara rolled her eyes.

"Are you ssssure about that?" Ceto dropped half her coiled length down from the branch until her eyes were even with the brunette's.

"I'm sure." Pezzini's voice was full of certainty. She was master of her destiny, not anyone or anything else. Period.

"Perhapsss you ssshould look a little deeper." Ceto tilted her head toward the place where the Witchblade used to rest.

Sara followed the serpent's stare. At first there was nothing to see, only the lightly tanned flesh of her wrist. Then something moved under the skin. It was just a shadow that followed the line of her pulse, but Pez suddenly could not swallow around the lump of fear in her throat.

"Now that the drugsss are wearing off, there isss nothing blocking your receptivity," the voice of the ancient goddess was faint, as if coming from far down a well. Sara stared in horror at her arm, where the outline of serpents could clearly be seen, moving and pressing against her flesh.

Sara woke up alone, heart hammering from the nightmare about snakes crawling under her skin. The television was still on, but muted, and the flickering light cast strange shadows across once-familiar surfaces. Still caught up in the feeling from the dream, Sara was quick to snap on the end table lamp.

In the sharp glare of the lamp, Sara stared around her, looking for… something, anything that might spring out of the darkness and attack. After several moments of tense silence, nothing happened. Pezzini finally looked down at her arm. It was normal, no marks, no shadows, and no snakes.

She rubbed her wrist, the dream had felt so real. It had been as Technicolor surround sound as any vision the Witchblade had ever given her. But which was it, dream or vision?

There was only one person who Sara could ask, and trust the response, Gabriel Bowman. He was coming over this morning. Pez glanced at the clock, wondering if she could wait the four hours until Gabriel was supposed to show. Deciding to try, Sara got up to take a shower.

An hour later, squeaky clean but still keyed up, Sara stopped trying to be patient, she never had been very good at it, and picked up the phone. She ignored the fact that her fingers shook a little as she punched in the numbers. The answering machine picked up, starting it's prerecorded spiel. Pez tuned it out, waiting for the beep.

"Yo Gabriel! Stop surfing the web and pick up the phone." Sara barked into the receiver.

There was a muted fumbling sound as someone grabbed at the phone, "'Lo?"

Gabriel had a very husky morning voice for his age. Sara grinned at the incongruity and began to talk, already feeling better. "Sorry to call so early, but I may have a problem."

"And this possible problem could not wait a few hours?" Gabriel grumbled. He had been up half the night dickering prices for sacrificial mummies with his contact in Peru. It was amazing what you could get done in a chat room.

"I saw Ceto." Pez kept it simple.

"I'll be right over." Gabriel dropped the phone on the cradle.

Sara listened to the dial tone for a moment, her concern increased by Gabe's reaction.


	14. Confessions and Coffee

Chapter 14: Confessions and Coffee

Ian had found it difficult to stay away from Sara during the night. She was still weak, and really had no business being alone. It bothered Nottingham that he could not stay with her every moment, but he had other duties to attend to. Said business including a meeting that he would dearly love to put off. Irons was going to bring up that tape again, and Ian was going to have to tell him something. He just didn't know what.

Not the truth, that was for certain. Irons would blow a gasket if he found out that Ian had given the tape to McCarty. He had already been forbidden from telling Pezzini that her partner was FBI. Kenneth wanted Sara to feel that she had no one to turn to, other than himself, for help. Ian could only hope that McCarty would be smart enough to tell Pez the truth on his own.

At least young Bowman was visiting with her this morning. Their friendship had been as sudden as it was strange, but Gabriel was fiercely loyal to Sara for all that. Privately, Nottingham thought the Witchblade might have had a hand in that. He had first wondered if Bowman was another soul bound to the Gauntlet when he had refused to back off after being threatened. After all, Ian knew that Gabriel had been afraid of him that day.

The more Sara turned to Gabe for his esoteric knowledge, the more certain Ian became that the Witchblade had 'arranged' for the two of them to come together.

They were not friends, but Nottingham respected the younger man for his intelligence and fortitude. Perhaps he should speak to Bowman again, in a more congenial manner. After all, Sara did not have many friends. He should make more of an effort to get along with the few she had. He didn't want to make things any harder for Sara and himself than it was already going to be.

For all his archaic sensibilities, Nottingham was realistic enough to admit that they had hurdles enough already. No matter how you looked at it, they should not mix. Their careers were assassin and police officer. Their outlook on life was just as far apart, being poet and pragmatist, each carrying enough emotional baggage to ground a 747. That didn't even touch upon the supernatural elements of their relationship, or the battles that they would be called to fight, simply because of who they were. Yet he loved her, and hoped she was coming to love him in return.

Perhaps they were so opposite because together they were complete? It was an argument put forth by many a bard; and everyone knew that magnetically speaking, opposites attract and like repels. It had seemed little enough to pin his hopes on, but ever since Valentine's Day, that theory had seemed more and more substantial.

While holding that feeling tight to his heart; Ian made his way down the halls of Vorshlag Industries. The sooner he finished here, the sooner he could get back to his beloved's side.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Sara had been up and down, pacing until she tired (which wasn't long), sitting until she couldn't stand it any more, and then went back to pacing again. Just when she was about to reach for the phone, there came a rapping at the door. It sounded like someone was kicking it lightly, as opposed to knocking.

An eye to the peephole showed a big brown eye looking back at her. Rolling her jade green ones, Sara opened the door. Honestly, that was such a kid thing. She stepped back to let Gabriel in, the smell of coffee and fresh donuts telling her why he had taken longer than she had expected to arrive.

Bowman was instantly forgiven for worrying her. In Sara's book, coffee would buy you a pardon for a great many lesser offenses, and a few major ones. "Thanks for coming so early, and for bringing coffee."

"Well I, for one, was not going to function without caffeine, and I didn't know if you would have any." Gabriel sat the bag of donuts and the cardboard carrier with the two cups of coffee on the kitchen bar.

"You are a godsend," Sara popped one of the cups out of the carrier and took a sip.

Her eyes closed in bliss. They wouldn't let her have coffee in the hospital, said it would mess up her blood sugar. Nottingham must have been listening in on that discussion, because he hadn't bought any when he went to the store. He'd even thrown the can she kept in the freezer away. Bastard.

"I'd always heard the way to a woman's heart was chocolate, but whatever works." Gabe grinned cheekily at Sara.

"Well, the way to a detective's heart is coffee." Sara chuckled as she cradled the hot paper cup.

"So I should be in good with the entire precinct with this in my backpack?" Bowman asked as he carefully set his pack on the table. The front compartment, which usually held nothing but extra disks and junk food, was bulging. Gabe zipped it open and pulled out a bag of 'The Roasterie' coffee beans.

"Oh definitely," Pez grinned as she scooped up the bag and headed to the kitchen. One of the few cooking implements she had, before Ian's little shopping trip, was a grinder.

While Sara was in the kitchen, Gabe set up his laptop. He connected it to his cell phone, since Pez did not have Internet access in her apartment. Bowman did not like to leave files on his computer, but had them archived on an encrypted, password protected, server. Once he had logged on, he began to open relevant files.

After several minutes of mysterious clanking noises, Sara came out of the kitchen area and sat down next to Gabriel. "Ok, next wave of caffeine is brewing, so what have you got for me?"

"Well, you already know that Ceto is the mother of monsters, among which are the three gorgons. Interestingly enough, of the three, only Medusa was mortal. Her two sisters cannot be slain, according to myth. What you might not know is that there has been some speculation that Medusa's ability to die means she can be resurrected under certain conditions."

"Actually, I knew that." Sara cut in, "And it's not speculation. The snakehead I fought was definitely Medusa. I am not worried about her as much as I am Ceto. This is the second dream she's invaded, and this time I wasn't wearing the Witchblade. In fact, she said that without the Witchblade's protections, I was an easy mark."

"Whoa there Pez, why don't you start from the beginning?" Bowman turned away from the monitor, giving the brunette his undivided attention.

"Ok, but this is gonna sound weird, and I don't understand half of it," Sara warned before beginning to relay the dream.

------------------------------------------------------

A/N: My apologies for the long waits and short updates. The holiday season is upon us, and I am working like the Fairy Godmother's employees in Shrek 2, only I'm making jewelry, not potions. Anyway, it's gonna be sparse around here until after Christmas, I am sorry to say. Thank you for reviewing, and please continue to let me know what you all think. I suspect you are all wondering why Sara didn't ask Ian, and the truth is, Sara gets more straightforward and unfiltered answers from Gabe, and she knows it. I'm a little disapointed that she didn't think Ian would tell her everything, but...shrug... this IS Sara after all. She's not the most trusting of souls, and with good reason.


	15. Conferences and Conundrums

Chapter 15: Conferences and Conundrums

-

"I hope, for your sake, that I did not hear you correctly." Irons said coldly, his pale blue eyes a perfect match for the winter in his tone.

"Your hearing is without fault. The tape is not in Sara Pezzini's apartment." Nottingham kept his head down. He was walking a fine line of truth here, but he knew perfectly well how badly he lied. The only time he managed to ever get anything by Irons was when he scrupulously told the truth, even if the omissions were large enough to hide elephants behind.

"Then where is it?" Irons asked with deceptive gentleness. When he spoke in those soft tones, Ian knew he was far angrier than yelling could ever express.

"I am not certain of its exact whereabouts." He wasn't. McCarty could have done anything with it by this point. It could be in his apartment still, but Ian doubted it. More likely, it had been taken to an F.B.I. lab to be examined, copied, and cross-referenced.

"It would be prudent for you to learn." Irons practically purred as he watched his penitent servant closely. Nottingham practically vibrated with guilt.

Was it because Ian thought, quite rightly, that he had not left the videotape in the best possible location? Or was it that he had not given Sara the tape at all, and was trying to keep from doing so? Kenneth had noticed his reticence when the order had been given.

Yet Nottingham had hesitated before this, and in the end he had always obeyed. Maybe he needed a little reminder of whom he served? Had he been too lenient with Ian, given him delusions of autonomy? Kenneth narrowed his eyes as he contemplated the most efficient way to bring his wayward charge to heel.

"I will begin with a thorough check of the hospital. Perhaps Sara overlooked it while packing. She didn't take any of the flowers with her after all. I will also check the visitor roster, see if anyone was in her room after we left that could have picked the tape up." Nottingham knew that the only thing that would divert the oncoming punishment he could see in Kenneth's eyes was to make it inconvenient to Irons' plans to have him out of commission.

"There is another possibility," Kenneth paused just long enough to see if Nottingham would give that little shift he always did when he had been disobedient. So often Irons had known nothing of any transgression, yet the slightest pause in the right place could give him volumes of information. Ian stayed perfectly still, to Kenneth's surprised pleasure. "Perhaps our fair Sara has seen the tape, and has given it to someone she trusts for safekeeping."

"That is a possibility, yes," Ian had not thought of that one. He was torn between admiration for the brilliant mind in front of him, who saw so many possibilities and angles, and the euphoria of not being caught in his not-quite-a-lie.

"If that proves to be the case, it would be best if this individual were to appear to have surprised a burglar in his or her own home. Make a suitable mess, take only the tape, and find a way to leave one of those gauche shell casings at the scene." Irons curled his lip at the sheer stupidity of leaving a calling card behind, especially to hallmark your presence at the site of something illegal.

"May I take one of Dante's?" Ian asked carefully.

"One with his finger prints would be ideal for my plans, would it not?" Irons leaned back, fingers coming together in a steeple. After his earlier concerns regarding Nottingham's commitment to his latest endeavors, it was reassuring to see Ian bending his thoughts toward how to efficiently accomplish those self-same plans.

"Yes, it would. I can also check in on Robert while I am at the hospital." Ian still felt badly about the older man being shot. He was not the first noncombatant to be hurt on his watch, but he was the first one who had also been a friend. It was hard to think of friends as collateral damage.

"How is Robert?" Kenneth asked, his tone politely curious, and nothing more. He had checked in on his chauffer the first time he had gone to visit Sara, purely as an employer seeing to the welfare of an employee. It wouldn't do to get too familiar with the help.

"He is conscious for longer periods, according to his physician. I will learn what he can remember of the night he was attacked. The flagrant disregard for subtlety, combined with such ineptitude has me concerned. It does not fit the profile of any of our enemies." Ian dangled the bait carefully, wondering if he could lure Irons into making the connection that Nottingham wished him to.

"Brute force and poor intelligence may not describe any of our enemies, but it does match with an ally who has outlived his usefulness." Irons pointed out.

"Do you think he is smart enough to know that?" Ian asked, arching a brow.

"Cunning and intelligence are two different things, and they rarely occur together. I think he may be clever enough to sense the change in the wind, but not smart enough to travel with it. His clumsy attempt to eliminate me matters not, as I will be sacrificing him to the F.B.I. as soon as it is expedient to do so." Irons tossed his hand negligently, and Ian knew he was dismissed.

With his head down, Nottingham backed away his customary three steps before turning and leaving the office. He needed to arrange the security detail for the next week in accordance with the schedule Irons had given him during the first part of their meeting, but that would not take long. Ian could get that done over the phone with his secretary, stop at a certain cyber café to transfer his personal assets, and be done at the hospital in time to take Sara to lunch.

The double glass doors opened to a bright, if blustery, February morning. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. He should have been happy. He had gotten out of the meeting in one piece, without blame for the missing tape or any hint of suspicion regarding his time spent with the lovely detective. But he wasn't.

Nottingham closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the wind tugging on the shorter tendrils of hair that had escaped their ponytail confinement. The air was cold and clean, but it could not wash away the guilt he was feeling. Not only had he twisted the truth completely out of form with the man he considered to be his father, he had set in motion a chain of events that could ultimately force Ian to kill one of Sara's friends.

-----------------------------------------

"So then she said, 'the Witchblade is blood of my blood and it is now yours as well,' which is kind of freaky." Sara had been talking too much to drink her coffee, content just to cradle it in her hands and breathe the aroma.

"Well, if what you're saying is true, the Witchblade was formed from the branch of the Tree of Knowledge, which was struck from the Tree by an angry God as he was smiting the serpent who had led the first humans into temptation, and I find that extremely freaky. What the Hell kind of tree makes a shape changing metal?" Bowman shook his head, perturbed.

"Mythology doesn't follow any rules. If it did, it would be science." Sara gave him a wry grimace; the supernatural had never had anything to do with her stock in trade until the Witchblade had found its way to her wrist. Pez still found it a difficult to believe in half the shit she was seeing, even when it reached out and bit her.

"I know, I know, but still…I always thought the Witchblade was forged of meteoric metal. It would make more sense than anything else. Are you sure Ceto wasn't lying to you? Beings that go around claiming to be deities are notorious for lying, or at least not telling the whole truth." Gabriel leaned back from his laptop and spun it toward Sara, the screen holding the image of an ancient mosaic of a snake headed woman.

"I'm pretty sure Medusa and Ceto both were telling the truth. I did have another source of confirmation you know." Sara lifted her wrist out of habit, even though there was nothing there now. It got her point across, even bare.

"As many artifacts as I've handled in my time, I never thought the Christian religion had their theology together. I mean really, their creation myth is a hodgepodge of pagan and Judaic beliefs, with some brutal editing and translation issues making it an even bigger hash down through the years." Gabe sprung out of his chair and began pacing, excited and disturbed at the same time.

His career choice had inured him to the spiritual aspects of the artifacts he handled every day. It was still exciting to find and handle sacred artifacts, to be sure, but you could only see so many before the awe factor dissipated. Seeing how people reacted to those same objects had put a major crimp their holiness for Gabriel. How can something that is supposed to bring you closer to your deity inspire such greed and obsession?

"Hey there, Catholic remember?" Sara objected to Gabe's negative assessment.

"Oh please. When was the last time you were in a church, other than to investigate a crime?" Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"Just because I don't go every single Sunday, doesn't mean I don't believe in God." Pezzini deflected the question, because she didn't have any idea.

"It's nicto." Gabe said; lips twitching as he fought back a grin.

"Nicto?" Sara furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Sorry, you just reminded me of this guy named Ash there for a minute. He was supposed to say the sacred words before he picked up this very powerful Sumerian text or he would unleash an army of the dead, but he couldn't remember the last word, which was nicto." Bowman put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

"I take it this army of the dead rose up to reclaim the book?" Sara knew Gabriel was laughing at her; she just didn't get the joke.

"Yes they did. When the wise men asked Ash if he had said the words, he said that maybe he hadn't said every single syllable, but basically he said the words." Dark eyes twinkled merrily at her over Gabe's hand. He couldn't believe she hadn't gotten the reference yet. Maybe he'd buy her a copy of 'Army of Darkness' for her birthday.

"Ok, I see the connection, but I don't understand why you think it's so funny." Sara detested being laughed at. "Nor do I see what it has to do with Ceto. Can we get back on track here?"

"Sorry, sleep deprivation coupled with too little caffeine does not aid in coherent thought processes," Bowman put his free hand out toward her in a warding gesture.

"Then walk your erudite ass into the kitchen and get more coffee." Pez jerked a thumb in the general direction of the coffee pot.

"Spend a lot of time thinking about my butt detective?" Gabriel bobbed dark brows at her suggestively.

"You wish." Sara laughed at his back. While Gabe was off getting his refill, Pezzini started to read about the Gorgons and their mother, Ceto.

"So what else did the old snake have to say?" coffee achieved, Gabriel settled back into his chair.

"After the whole blood of my blood bit, which I wasn't exactly buying in to, Ceto explains that the Witchblade has moved through my body, changing it on a molecular level. Since her blood is part of the Witchblade, I now share some of her DNA." Sara shrugged. She was uncomfortably aware that the ancient being, somehow calling it a god seemed blasphemous, was right.

"Is that your word choice or hers?" Gabe asked; slouched back in his chair and nibbling on the edge of his thumb.

"Hers, believe it or not."

"Damn." Gabriel dropped the hand, letting it slap on the arm of the chair.

After several moments of silence, Sara prompted, "What?"

"It would have made our lives easier if Ceto had been living in the past. If she wasn't up on modern technology, we might have been able to spring something on her she hadn't anticipated.

"If you had any ideas on how to keep her out of my head, I'm still willing to try them. Ceto told me that now that I'm not taking the pain medication there's nothing blocking her from my subconscious. I could see her every time I go to sleep." Pez took a fortifying gulp of coffee. It was getting a little cold, but the taste was still comforting.

"When did you stop taking your medication?" Gabe asked.

"I palmed the sleeping pills my last two nights at the hospital. They gave me more to take 'as needed', but I haven't felt that bad yet, so the medication must be pretty much out of my system by now." Sara looked into eyes that had darkened with concern.

"Then maybe you should take a pill today, which will give me time to get something set up. I've got a few things back at the shop that are for protection from spirit possession, and some that are for dreams. I'll bring them all over this afternoon, and we'll see what works, if any. I'm not sure if they will perform as advertised, and I hate to take chances with my friends, so lets both be thinking about an alternative to try if they don't." Gabe was back to biting his thumb, which Sara had come to associate with deep thinking on his part.

"We had better hope that one of the artifacts would work. Ceto said that without the Witchblade's protections, I am open to anything with the knowledge to use me." The last part left a bad taste in Sara's mouth. She hated to be used, hated to not be in control. The idea of some entity taking her over was abhorrent.

------------------------------------------


	16. Possession

Chapter 18: Possession

It had done Ian's heart good to see Robert so obviously recovering. The older man's coloring had been better, and the sparkle had been back in his eyes. A rueful grin curved generous lips. Oh yes, Robert had been in better spirits, enough so that he had asked some rather pointed questions about 'that green-eyed gal'.

Talking about Sara had done much to lighten Nottingham's mood as well. Ian departed the hospital with a much springier step than he had entered. Talking about his beloved to an appreciative audience had been cathartic, and he had found himself saying more than he had intended. It was hard not to extol the virtues of Sara, and he had babbled like a lovesick swain.

Thank God Kenneth did not converse with the servants, except to give orders, for they were sure to know all about Ian's love life by now. When he had left, Robert was squirming like a small child with a secret he was desperate to share. Nottingham hadn't even gotten all the way through the door before the older man was reaching for the phone.

Ian had chatted with the recovering chauffer longer than he had anticipated; it was almost eleven by the time he left. In the interest of saving time, Nottingham did something he enjoyed but rarely did. He drove like a maniac. Ok, so no one was really in any danger with his excellent timing and superior reflexes, but many motorists had still applied the title as he had woven through traffic.

Maybe he shouldn't enjoy it so much, but the waving fists, blaring horns, and creative profanity that followed his aggressive driving style made him laugh with demented glee. The speakers were blaring 'Princes of the Universe' and the wind from the open windows was whipping his hair out behind him as Sara's apartment building came into view on the left.

Miracle of miracles, there was a parking space opening up next to the building. Nottingham slewed the wheel, tires screeching on pavement, and cut across three lanes of traffic to slide into a parallel parking spot. Smirking at the driver he had cut off to get the space, Ian got out of his car and walked to the entrance. He reached up and took the ponytail holder out of his hair. The elastic band had lost the battle with the wind, and Sara liked his hair down better anyway.

Strolling through the lobby instead of racing up the fire escape was a relatively new experience, this being his second trip to Sara's apartment. It felt… odd. Nottingham was very aware of the change in his status as he rode inside the elevator. No longer relegated to the outside, he had been welcomed in, and it was wonderful and scary all at the same time.

He didn't have a key to Pezzini's door, but he didn't need one. Her apartment was surprisingly easy to break into. Ian wondered if she counted on the fact that everyone in the building knew what she did for a living to be sufficient deterrent against breaking and entering, or if it was just that nobody wanted to carry anything down from the top floor of the building.

As soon as the door opened, Ian could hear the laugh track of an old situation comedy. Sara must be watching television right? Right. Yet the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. Something wasn't right. A strange tingling began on his right side where the Witchblade lay.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Ian drew out the cotton bag that held the Gauntlet. He opened the drawstrings and spilled the bracelet out into his gloved hand. In the center of the stone was a faint glow. His initial reaction was relief that the Witchblade was stirring; this was the first sign he had that the Gauntlet had not been rendered inert from the battle with Medusa. Hard on the heels of that relief was concern. What was the Witchblade reacting to?

The bracelet was slid back into the bag and strung around his neck, instead of returning to his pocket. The Witchblade rested over his heart, warm even through the two layers of cloth that separated them. Hands free again, Ian moved stealthily through the apartment. He was alert for any danger, but found nothing except Sara, asleep on the couch.

Pezzini was dressed in navy sweats and a grey NYPD tee shirt, slouched sideways across the futon that had been made back up for sitting. Sara must have fallen asleep while watching the television… with every light on in the place. That was peculiar. The blinds were open on every window, and yet she had turned on all the lights.

Moving closer, Ian realized that whatever dream Sara was having, it wasn't a pleasant one. She twisted on the couch, head jerking back and forth, and there were rings of sweat around the collar and armpits of her tee shirt.

"No," Sara whispered. Her breath was coming fast, as she were running or expending great effort. "I won't… can't make me… fucking bitch…No!"

As the scream faded, Sara sat up in a sinuous rolling motion that made Ian step back. Pezzini did not move that way. She turned her head, drawn by the motion. Her eyes met his, pupils so dilated that only a thin ring of green glittered between black and white. She smiled, a predatory stretch of lips that held nothing of the woman Nottingham had come to know.

"I believe I owe you thisss," even the voice was different, sibilant.

She raised her arm, and Ian was forced to dive to the side as a bullet split the air where his head had been. Nottingham rolled, pushing off in the opposite direction as he came up. The whine of another bullet told him she had anticipated his movement but misjudged the timing.

"Almossst got you that time, pretty boy." The brunette chuckled, and it sounded like the rustling of a nest of snakes.

"Almost doesn't count for much, does it?" Nottingham taunted, holding his ground. When she fired at his still form, he twisted out of the way again. He had hoped to bait her into anger, wanting her to do something foolish that would give him a chance to disarm the Gorgon, but the look on her face was both determined and patient.

"No, but I am getting a feel for your sssspeed now. Sssoon enough I won't missss," the brunette smiled confidently.

Ian did not want to hurt Sara, but he wasn't too keen on being shot either. What she said was true, sooner or later she would correctly anticipate his movements and take him down. Her Glock had at least eleven more rounds in it, each one a chance to hit him or go through a wall and injure someone else. Knowing there was no help for it, Nottingham spun, using the momentum to throw one of his knives at the gun.

With a metallic clatter, the spinning blade connected with the barrel, knocking the weapon out of her outstretched hand. She hissed at Ian and lunged, closing the distance faster than he would have believed possible, her fist just grazing his jaw as he belatedly dodged backward.

Damn, but she was fast, almost as fast as him. Nottingham twisted aside, hands sweeping her strike out and away as she came at him again. This close to her, the Witchblade responded with a surge of power that distracted him with its intensity. The Blade called out to its previous owner with the silver ringing of trumpets, vibrating his bones with its song. Seeing an opportunity in Ian's moment of inattention, the possessed woman kicked, knocking his kneecap out of the socket.

Ian dropped in a haze of pain, teeth clenched against the scream in his throat. He had to stop playing nice, or he would die and whatever had taken over Sara would run unchecked through the city. He knew that Pez would rather get hurt than have her reputation damaged by whatever the being inhabiting her body decided to do. Nottingham thought about his options as she circled him, her expression gloating.

She closed in for the kill as he huddled on the ground, injured leg out beside him at an odd angle. With a silent apology, Ian punched Sara in the outer thigh. He hit hard enough to cause the nerve cluster to shut down, and she dropped as awkwardly as he had. As soon as she hit the ground, Nottingham flung himself atop her, doing his best to hold her down. He had no idea how to reverse whatever had happened to Sara, but he had to subdue the flesh before he could deal with the spirit.

Torso struck torso as Ian grabbed for her flailing arms, and the Witchblade grew hotter as it was pressed tight between them. The smell of burning cloth filled his nostrils as he grimly hung on to the brunette twisting under him. The burning grew worse; Nottingham could feel his flesh scorching under the heated metal.

The woman under him hissed in pain as the cotton of Sara's tee shirt disappeared in a puff of flame and the metal touched her bare flesh as well. Chance or fate had the Gauntlet land on the concentric rings that Sara already bore, the mark of the Chosen one.

A white light, too brilliant to look at, sprang up from where metal touched flesh. The woman under him screamed, the tone high and thin as if she couldn't get enough air. Through the pain of the burn, Ian could feel his throat working, words spilling from his lips that he did not understand nor had chosen to speak.

Whatever he was saying, it drew the fire away from him and down into her like a sword. The brunette flung her head back, oily grey smoke rising up from her screaming lips. Ian could not see the light progress, but he could feel the heat of it crawling through the woman beneath him.

It was enough to make Ian realize that he was cold. Frost rimmed the edges of his hair and the wool of his coat; his breath came in plumes of white. The Witchblade was using his life energy to fuel the ethereal fire that was cleansing Sara of whatever had tainted her. Nottingham hoped he was strong enough for this; there was a ringing in his ears that told him he had been pushed beyond his endurance. He knew that he was going to collapse soon.

Just as spots were forming in front of his amber eyes, the grey smoke rose above Sara, twisting and writhing like a beheaded snake. The analogy was not far wrong. Flat, unfriendly eyes met his as the mist slowed and somehow gained solidity. A great grey snake drifted on invisible air currents, drawing its head back in preparation to strike. Nottingham fought to stay awake; knowing somehow that to fall unconscious was akin to leaving the doors of your car unlocked in Queens.

"You have given too much of your life-force to drive me out. You have nothing left for yourssself." Ceto assessed his condition. Now that she had been forced from Sara's flesh, she needed a new avatar to interact with the material world. He was not as good a host as the Wielder in some respects, but he would be easier to control, and had strength and skill enough to overpower Pezzini. She could do worse.

"I have enough to do what I must." Ian bluffed. He was as out of it as he could ever remember being. Just keeping his eyes open was a Herculean effort.

The serpent did not reply immediately, body coiling lazily under that upraised head. The movements were entrancing, pulling at what was left of his focus. "How tired you mussst be."

It was hard to remain silent, to not agree with her. His eyelids were so heavy. Ian felt a prickling on his chest, like being stuck with a thousand pins. He hissed in a breath, the pain sudden and sharp, but he was awake again. Nottingham tore his eyes away from the serpent. He would not make that mistake again.

What could he do to break the stalemate? Ian wracked his brain for any bit of arcane or archaic knowledge that would send the manifestation away. Then the Witchblade hummed under him. Ian felt the world shift and realized the Blade was changing something, rearranging time or causality to suit its needs.

There was a sudden knocking on the apartment door. "Yo Pez! Open up!" There was a long moment of silence. "Fuck. Sara, come on. Don't be asleep dammnit." There was another round of loud banging.

Ian tried to call out, but his teeth were chattering from the cold. In frustration, he slammed his fist into the floor.

"Pez? You ok? Shit. That's it. I'm coming in," Bowman rattled the door and found it unlocked. He burst in, a bag full of artifacts on one shoulder, his other hand holding a ceremonial knife.

Even half-dead Ian noticed that Bowman's grip was all wrong. He was clearly going to have to teach the boy how to hold a blade.

"Oh shit. Uhm, spastrim delikat me qellim aplikimin e ndienjave te izolimit, dobesise dhe vulnerabilitetit ndaj ketij komuniteti me qellim qe ata te braktisin shtepite e tyre dhe te shperngulen" Gabriel chanted, hoping he'd remembered the words to draw away Ceto's power and force her out. It had been a long time since he'd needed to speak Greek, but supposedly the only way to use the power of the bronze alloy knife in his hand was to speak the old language.

Gabe hadn't been convinced any of it would work. Of all the artifacts he'd seen in his career, the Witchblade was the only thing that performed consistently, and it had an agenda of its own. He must have gotten it right enough, there was an implosion of air that made his ears pop, and the otherworldly serpent disappeared.

"What the Hell was that, and what the Hell are you doing? Get off Sara right now." Bowman started to move forward, only seeing Irons henchman sprawled over the body of his friend.

"S'Okay Gabe. I think. Wha' happened?" Sara mumbled woozily; vaguely aware of a cold weight over her. She remembered fighting Ceto in her dream, remembered the snake coiling around her and sinking into her skin.

"How the Hell should I know? I just got here." Gabriel looked at Nottingham for information and realized he was covered in melting frost. "But I think we'd better do something about tall, dark, and deadly. He's lowered the temperature of the room by more than ten degrees."

Sara curledher lips, remembering her description of Ian back when she had met Gabriel. "Yeah, he's shaking." Now that she was coming awake, she was aware of his shivers and chattering teeth. She was also aware of a throbbing in her leg and chest.

Gabriel grabbed the blankets that had been stripped off the futon and dropped them over Nottingham. He headed for the kitchen to see if there was still coffee in the pot. The heated liquid would help to bring his core temperature back up. So would a warm bath, but he was damned if he was going to suggest it. Something told him that trying to take the dark man's clothing off while he was only half aware was asking to get killed.

A/N: So, worth the wait? Love to all my readers!


	17. Lesser Evil?

Chapter 17

This chapter is dedicated to Mayhem McGregor, known to the rest of the world as Jeff Thompson, one of the men who were killed by a crazed gunman in the club shooting in Columbus, Ohio. You are missed, my friend, you are terribly missed.

-

Sara gritted her teeth. Her chest felt bruised and it hurt to breathe, her throat was so raw. What had happened to her? Clearly, the dream had been no dream. Ceto had hijacked her body and gone for a joyride. Or tried to anyway. She must have run afoul of Ian almost immediately, which could be both good and bad, depending on what she had done when they met.

At first, she had been too concerned about Ian to focus on her own discomforts, but he had finally stopped shaking and was cuddled up against her under the blankets Gabriel had piled over them. Nottingham weighed a goddamn ton. Not that she had noticed that at first either, but after the adrenaline rush had worn off, she definitely had. Not only was he heavy, but his weapons dug into her flesh in the oddest places.

Sara shoved him to the side. When he rolled, she smelled that odd combination of scorched cloth and skin that she had not thought to ever smell outside of a crime scene. Wondering if it was Ian or she, although Sara was betting on him as her chest felt more like she'd been shot that burned, Pezzini turned the blankets down.

"Uhm, Pez, flashing," Gabe choked out as Sara sat up. Her shirt had a huge hole in the chest, centered over her heart, but big enough and twisted around from her movements to expose most of one breast. He was friend enough to say something, but guy enough to ogle until she jerked a sheet over her chest.

"Ahem," Sara cleared her throat, jerking Bowman's attention back up to her face, "Turn around so I can see if I'm burned anywhere, you pervert."

"Uhhh, yeah, right," Gabe ducked his head, abashed, and spun his chair around. He didn't even try to deny the pervert part. What could he say? All men were. It was genetic.

Sara dropped the sheet and gently touched the blackened edge of the t-shirt. Other than feeling like a mule had kicked her, there was nothing. No burn, no bruise, nothing. Her old scar was a little dark maybe, but she didn't pay that much attention to it. The damn thing might look like that all the time, for all you could prove it by her.

Ok, she had gotten off all right, but had Ian? The burnt flesh smell had to be coming from somewhere. Almost afraid of what she would see, Sara carefully lifted the sheet away from the unconscious man's chest.

There was a black leather cord that led to the charred remnants of a bag. Further down were small bits of the bag, and charred cloth edging a pair of concentric circles burned into Nottingham's chest. The wound was red and raw, and looked deep. It was also, and this gave Sara pause, in the same place as the twin circles that Irons had told her were the mark of her destiny. What the Hell?

"Can I turn around now?" Gabe asked, wondering what was taking so long.

Sara grabbed an edge of the sheet and tucked it around her before saying, "Sure."

"So?"

"So what?" A glint of silver had caught the detective's eye, distracting her from the conversation.

"Are you ok?" Gabe barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"I'm fine." She replied absently. Shifting gingerly, Sara reached down into the burned shirt.

Despite her concern and confusion, she couldn't help noticing how his skin felt under her fingers. His skin was soft, but the muscles underneath were not. Her hand tingled and Pez fought the urge to do a little exploring. Now was not the time. He was hurt, she was hurt, and Gabe was sitting five feet away, researching away on his laptop.

Finally her questing fingers touched cold metal. A sharp tingle went up her arm and Sara closed her hand over the familiar shape. Pezzini wasn't really surprised when she pulled the Witchblade out of Ian's shirt, not that she had been expecting it, but somehow it made sense for him to have it. He must have picked the Gauntlet up the night Carmelita had tried to kill her, and had been keeping it for her ever since.

Holding it between thumb and forefinger, Sara eyed the dull silver bracelet like it would turn and bite her at any moment. Ever since the Witchblade had come into her life, things had gone down the rabbit hole. She didn't trust it, but if Ceto had been telling the truth, the Blade was her best defense against the ancient serpent.

A snort of laughter escaped the brunette, bringing Gabriel's attention away from the monitor. "What's so funny?"

"I never thought I'd think of the Witchblade as the lesser evil." Sara shook her head ruefully, "But I've just come to the conclusion that if it's her or the Blade, I'm going to choose…"

"Hey! I thought that was gone?" Gabe scrambled out of his seat to get a better look at the small silver bracelet.

"So did I. I guess Nottingham was holding on to it for me. Good thing too, this must be how he drove Ceto out of my body." Sara held the artifact up to the light. The metal wasn't as bright as she remembered it being, the stone murky instead of that clear carnelian. Nor had the Witchblade assaulted her with visions or the urge to put it back on.

"It looks pretty beat up. Do you suppose whatever Carmelita did to you that night damaged it?" Gabriel watched the Gauntlet through the fringe of his dark bangs, wanting to touch it but knowing better.

"I think that's a safe assumption." Sara tilted the Witchblade, trying to see if there was any spark inside the gem. It lay quiet in her hand, no sign of the power that had saved her life.

Looking from the bracelet to the still-unconscious Nottingham, Pezzini began to piece together just what must have happened. The Gauntlet had been too weak to save her by itself, so it used Ian for power like an electronic device drew on a battery. No wonder he was out cold.

Sara closed the Witchblade in her fist, wondering if it had enough power by itself to keep Ceto out of her head. "Hey Gabe, you up for a little experiment?"

"What are you thinking?" Gabriel asked warily.

"I'm wondering if the Witchblade has enough juice to protect me. It looks pretty wasted." Sara paused, "I have to sleep sometime, and I don't want to wake up like this again."

"Yeah, I can understand that." Gabe gave her a sympathetic look.

"So, what I was thinking was, I put the Witchblade on and take a nap. You hang out with the dagger, just in case Ceto can take me over again. If she does, you can drive her out like last time." Sara opened her hand and looked at the bracelet.

"Whoa there Pez, are you sure you want to put that thing on? I mean, what if does to you what it did to Nottingham?" Gabe gestured to the assassin, still unconscious despite being shifted around and having Sara fishing around in his shirt.

"Huh. I don't know Gabriel, but my options are not real great right now. You've brought over some things that might work, and might not." Bowman started to cut in but Pezzini held up her hand for silence, "The knife worked for you, but you had to speak Greek."

"I'm not very fluent in Greek, Sara. I can read it much, much better than I can speak it. That was mostly by rote, I can teach it to you." Gabriel said earnestly.

"No thanks. I can barely order from the Mr. Gyro's menu." Sara deliberately pronounced it gi-ro instead of yee-ro, just to watch Gabe wince.

"Ok, but ask yourself, would you be putting it back on if there wasn't the whole snake-y possession thing hanging over your head?" Gabriel leaned forward to impress his seriousness on the stubborn brunette.

"No, but it is, and hypothetical questions don't mean shit when reality is kicking your ass." She was more afraid of being possessed again than she was of putting on the Gauntlet, but that didn't mean she was happy about wearing it again.

"You're going to do it no matter what I say, aren't you?" Gabe threw up his arms in irritation. Making decisions based on fear never worked out well for anyone.

"Yeah, I am. You got my back, or do I need to wait on Nottingham to wake up?" Pez pushed, knowing Bowman would agree to help sooner if pressured. She didn't want to have a lengthy discussion with him; her eyes were getting heavy again. She needed to sleep, and between the nightmare and then the possession, she hadn't gotten any to speak of since Ian had left the day before.

"I got you." Gabriel sighed and walked over to where he had left the ceremonial dagger. "But I don't think you've thought this through."

"Look, it didn't happen to you, so you have no idea. Waking up and knowing that your body had been off doing whatever without you is pretty damn scary. I hate being out of control, and that's about as far out of it as you can go. The Witchblade might drag me into things I'd rather not have anything to do with, but I was still me. Trust me, there's nothing else I've been thinking about since I woke up." Sounding about as defeated as Gabe could ever imagine her sounding, Sara put the bracelet on her wrist.

There was a soft hum and the stone glowed faintly for a moment, then everything was silent again. For Sara it felt like a bone that had been popped out of its socket had just gone back in. Tension she hadn't even been aware of evaporated, leaving her feeling more relaxed.

Gabriel let out his breath in a sigh of relief. It didn't look like anything had happened. "How do you feel?"

"Better, believe it or not, but still sleepy." She paused to yawn widely, "I'm just gonna sleep right here."

Before Gabriel's astonished eyes, Sara slid down and used Nottingham's muscular bicep for a pillow. Shortly after that, she began to snore softly. The sound made Gabe grin. He was going to give her so much shit for this. He wondered if he could pick up her snoring on his laptop's microphone.

-

A/N: Sorry about the length of time between posts. I just had more to deal with than I could handle. When Jeff died, and in such a senseless fashion, I just... couldn't find any joy in anything, including writing.


	18. Dinner and Manure

Dinner and Manure

The back room of Cherry's was full. Dante looked out over the tables, filled with his men. They all got together once a month to renew bonds, exchange information, and kick back. Those members with significant others referred to these gatherings as 'Poker Night'. To be sure, there was some 'poking' going on, but there wasn't a deck of cards in sight.

One of the things his predecessor had initiated was the 'entertainment'. Each man was seated next to a call girl, and what happened between the two after the meeting was their business. During the meal the women flirted and flattered, stroking egos and making the men feel appreciated and special.

Every man liked to hear about how wonderful he was from a pretty girl, even if she was a hooker. It made them feel better about themselves and what they were doing. The flattery worked wonders for morale building, and if they sampled the fruit even once, they could be blackmailed into keeping their mouths shut if they ever had a crisis of conscience. Bruno had to hand it to Kitcher; the whores were a stroke of genius.

But the chippies needed to take their cute little asses somewhere else. It was time for the meeting to begin. Dante tapped his fork against the nearly empty brandy snifter in front of him. "Your attention, please. OK. All right, everybody. Keep it, keep ... Dorfman, shut up please, will you?"

"Sorry," Dorfman mouthed, smart enough not to push it by continuing to talk.

The men settled down under his gaze, shifting from relaxed and slightly rowdy too attentive and focused. "All right, I think you should all know that tonight's entertainment has been cordially provided by Refined Escort Service."

The men clapped and cheered, some leering at their seatmates.

"Now, the usual considerations apply, right? For the next 30 days, any girl showing you a 'Refined' business card will be excused from any compromising positions she may find herself in. Right?" Dante looked around the room with an amiable grin.

This was business as usual, but Bruno always said it. The girls were relieved to hear him verbalize the agreement, and it made them more amenable to any arrangements his boys might be thinking of making with them for later.

"OK. Good, good. Now ladies, we really appreciate your, uh, company. Really. But we got some business to attend to, so ... Good night." Dante waved magnanimously, for all the world a gracious sovereign dismissing servants.

This was never popular with the men, who had been enjoying the company as well as the view. Hookers really knew how to show off their tits; Bruno had always found the view good from the head table. He didn't blame them when they groaned and mumbled good-natured complaints, but they'd never focus the way they should with the women in the room. Besides, every one of those 'ladies' reported to their pimp. Anything you said in front of them, their keepers would hear. Dante wasn't about to give them a single useful word to tell.

"C'mon, ladies. Time to go." Orlinsky said from Bruno's right, affirming the command, as was his job.

Dante waited until the door closed behind the women before standing. He gestured to the second table. "Tonight, the White Bulls would like to give special recognition to Detective Tommy Burgess."

A dark-haired young man stands up in response. Tommy smiles at being singled out. He's clearly pleased with the attention, which Bruno is happy to see. Men like this are easy to motivate and control. A little flattery, a little public praise, and they would do anything you asked.

"Now, within one week of getting his gold shield, Tommy was working a heroin sting. To our great dismay, a dispute broke out between the dealer and the buyer and somehow they both fatally got shot." Dante turned down his lips in a mock-pout.

"Aawwww," the sound of sympathy echoed around the room, ringing as false as their captain's sad look.

"Yeah. Neither the contraband nor the cash was ever recovered. But the good news is that the White Bulls' Scholarship fund is approximately $50,000 to the good." Dante smiled, and this time it was genuine.

Burgess nods in response to the heartfelt cheering that goes up after the announcement. He sits back down, his tablemates patting him on the back. Bruno catches the young detective's eye and makes sure Tommy sees the approval in his eyes. If possible, the dark-haired man puffs up even more.

Sitting in the back of the room with the other newer recruits, Jake curls a lip. Burgess is a bully and an ass. Seeing him preen was making him even sicker to his stomach than listening to the prostitutes cooing at them over dinner had.

It's the same story all over again, just with more players than usual. The room is full, and it is a little disheartening to see just how many cops there are wrapped up in this. Hell, most of his department is here. Poor Pez, it was a wonder she ever made detective with this kind of factionalism running the precinct.

Jake slumped in his chair, caught himself, and sat back up, plastering a smile on his face. He was barely able to keep from crossing his arms in front of his chest, but the body language would be a dead giveaway of his mood, so he contented himself with keeping his hands fisted under the table.

"I got some news concerning a certain female pain-in-the-ass homicide detective." Dante had started speaking again.

'Speak of the devil,' Jake thought to himself.

"I'm happy to report that due to some aggressive recruiting by yours truly, we're very, very close to solving the Pezzini problem. How, you may ask? The answer is, we finally have an inside man. Let's hear it for our newest member, Jake McCarty."

Amid the cheers and whistles, Jake slowly stood up. He kept the smile firmly in place, waving a little sheepishly. He hated to be the center of attention, especially in a situation like this. It was better to blend in to the background than to have everyone see and remember you. He sat back down as fast as he reasonably could, his only consolation the fact that every word was being recorded.

"Now, I don't expect McCarty to do it on his own, so listen up. When the doctors clear her for active duty, she will have to go in for a psychological evaluation. We all know Pezzini's nuts, but since they cleared her after her partner's death, I can only assume she is a good actress. It should be harder for her to fool the shrink this time, I've made sure her therapist is Wolheimer."

Knowing how to play his audience, Dante paused to let everyone laugh. Wolheimer was into meditation and hypnotherapy, and possibly the most annoying flake ever to come down the pipe. More than one cop had probably BEEN driven crazy just from the ditzy woman's babbling.

Even better, and unknown by most, Wolheimer and Pezzini had already clashed once. It had been years ago, back when the department had tried mandatory therapy for all detectives in high stress areas. It had been an attempt at political correctness that had failed miserably. The program was disbanded after several months of complaints on both sides, but not before Wolheimer had tried to encourage Pezzini to 'get in touch with her feminine side'.

Bruno wished he could have been there to witness the resulting explosion; Pezzini really had a mouth on her when she got angry, but he had been working in Narcotics back then. Fortunately Orlinsky had been waiting his turn with the doctor in the hall, and heard everything. He had brought it up when Dante had approached him about finding a therapist on the roster that could be bought.

A shrink with an axe to grind was even better than one with shiftable loyalties. He didn't have to pay Wolheimer a red cent, which also meant he didn't have to worry about a payoff being traced. All it had taken was a couple of strings being pulled, a few detectives suddenly needing therapy, and the next therapist in the rotation when Pezzini's case came up was Wolheimer. It was pure poetry.

"Many of us have suffered through her sessions, and while the idea of Pezzini being trapped with Wolheimer is entertaining, it's not the point I'm trying to make. The point is, I don't want the bitch to pass, and I don't want anyone to be surprised when she doesn't. As soon as she starts her sessions, make it the talk of the office. Gossip at the coffee pot and Xerox machine. Make sure everyone knows she's in therapy, and why. Be sympathetic, but lurid. I want everyone from gold badge to apple to think that she's nuttier than a fruitcake." Dante smiled, a predatory showing of teeth.

"Uhm Captain, how is gossip going to help us get Pezzini off the Force?" Jake asked from the back. This served two purposes, one, it made him look like the idiot he was trying so hard to be, and two, it was more incriminating evidence for the record.

"Listen McCarty, you're new to the game so I'll spell it out for you. If everyone looks at you like you're crazy, treats you like you're crazy, and talks to you like you're crazy, you start to believe you are as bug-nuts as everyone thinks you are." Orlinsky's voice was dry and matter-of-fact. "She's been on the edge since Woo bought it. It shouldn't take much to push her over."

"There's also the matter of public opinion. No one will raise a ruckus if Pezzini gets bounced, because they'll all believe she cracked up. Even her doctor will go with the 'common wisdom' especially since we all know how 'cooperative' Pezzini is with head shrinkers." Dante added, smug as a cat with a canary feather in his whiskers.

"About as cooperative as she is with everyone else," Burgess called out snidely.

"Exactly." Dante nodded at Tommy, "We have been handed a golden opportunity gentlemen. Let's not waste it."

0o0o0

A/N: apple- all probationary (new) officers in NY wear an apple on their collar for the first six months. (or at least they did, my info is about ten years out of date) I know this wasn't a 'fun' chapter, but it was necessary. Cheer up though, the next one is promising to be a lot more entertaining. So much so that I will either bump the rating or post an edited version here, and the original on my website.


	19. Dreams This chapter is R

A/N: This chapter is R. You have been warned. If it's not your bag, skip to the end of the chapter and continue reading.

Dreams

"Get up, get up, get up, get up," The music started softly. Sara was surprised to hear Marvin Gaye singing, it wasn't her usual thing. "Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up."

Sara sat up, wondering how she had gotten into her bed. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in the middle of the living room floor, with Nottingham. Was he all right?

Oh baby, now let's get down tonight

Baby I'm hot just like an oven,

I need some lovin'

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Ian stepped out of the shadows. His black trench coat was buttoned shut, hair falling around his face. No wonder she hadn't seen him earlier, even in the moonlight he was almost impossible to see.

And baby, I can't hold it much longer,

It's getting stronger and stronger

Nottingham strode forward, moving through the bands of light and dark cast by the unshuttered windows. His stride was slow, matching the beat of the song exactly. There was even a little sway to each step, more like a stalking cat.

And when I get that feeling

I want sexual healing - sexual healing  
Oh baby, makes me feel so fine, helps to relieve my mind

He ran gloved hands up his wool-covered torso, stopping at the collar. With a wicked little half-smile, Nottingham unfastened the first button. Sara forgot to breathe, caught by the possibilities in that smile.

Sexual healing, baby, is good for me  
Sexual healing is something that's good for me

Nimble fingers continued to work down the front of his coat as he stalked closer to the beautiful brunette watching him with a flush of desire on her cheeks.

Whenever blue teardrops are falling  
And my emotional stability is leaving me

The coat was open by the time he reached the edge of the bed. The long strip of flesh, framed by the black wool, captivated Sara. For a fleeting moment she wondered where his burn was, his chest was smooth and healed, then realized it had to be a dream.

Well, this beat nightmares of Ceto all to Hell. Sara settled back to enjoy her dream.

There is something I can do  
I can get on the telephone and call you up, baby

When he knelt on the edge of the mattress and began to crawl toward her, the coat fell open a little more. Sara could see the slightly darker edge of his left aureole, and she badly wanted to push aside the black fabric to plant a line of kisses down to the nipple.

And honey, I know you'll be there to relieve me  
The love you give to me will free me

He progressed up her legs until he was even with her hips, not realizing how sexy the slow stalking climb actually looked. His hair was falling around his face, accenting his eyes, which glittered gold with desire.

If you don't know the things you're dealing  
Oh, I can tell you, darling, that it's sexual healing

Leaning down on his forearms, his dark coat pooling around her hips and thighs, Ian's lips paused over the sheet-covered juncture. He exhaled, hot breath passing through the thin cloth, making her shiver in response.

Get up, get up, get up, get up,

let's make love tonight

He shifted, rolling upward, lips skimming a line up her torso. Sara squirmed in place, caged by long muscular limbs. Was there anything sexier than one's lover crouched over you half dressed and the air full of anticipation? Just then Nottingham looked up, a wicked glint in his eye, and sat up.

Wake up, wake up wake up, wake up,

'cause you do it right

The wool coat slithered down his shoulders to fall away behind him, just another shadow on the floor. Moonlight gleamed off his chiseled chest, perfect as any marble statue ever lauded by men.

Baby, I got sick this morning,

A sea was storming inside of me

Clad now only in loose black trousers of thin cotton, Ian swayed to the beat, hips rolling suggestively, and Pez decided that, yes, there was something sexier.

Baby, I think I'm capsizing,

the waves are rising and rising

Fisting hands into the hair at the base of his neck, Nottingham arched his back, thrusting upward in time with the lyrics. His body was taut with barely restrained hunger. The lightweight fabric of his pants rode low, tenting over his obvious desire. Sara whimpered low in her throat at the sight.

And when I get that feeling,

I want sexual healing

As suddenly as he had risen, he came back down, covering her from head to heels with his body. Sara could feel every inch of him pressed against her, the thin cotton of trousers and sheet no true impediment to the fire burning between them.

Sexual healing is good for me,

makes me feel so fine, it's such a rush  
Helps to relieve the mind, and it's good for us

In time with the beat, Ian undulated over the lovely detective, his hair falling like night shadows across his face. Sara arched against him, unable to stop herself. He felt so good, so right.

Sexual healing, baby, is good for me  
Sexual healing is something that's good for me

Her response broke some bond of restraint that Nottingham had been maintaining. His body tightened around hers, pulling Sara closer, impatient for more. Ian sank a knee between hers; sliding into the space he had made for himself.

And it's good for me and it's so good to me  
My baby ooh

Sara's moan drowned out the soulful crooning of Marvin Gaye, but neither noticed. The feel of him pressed high and tight against the juncture of her thighs was accelerant poured on a bonfire.

Come take control, just grab a hold

Of my body and mind,

Following the advice of the lyrics, Nottingham captured Sara's hands in his, bringing them to his waist. Pez had dated a guy in S.W.A.T. a few years ago, and he never seemed to wear anything besides the same black b.d.u. pants that Ian wore. Knowing from experience that she would have to untie the drawstring and undo the button fly before the pants could be removed, she followed the edge of the fabric. The press of their bodies stopped her questing fingers and she growled a little in frustration at the impediment.

Soon we'll be making it  
Honey, oh we're feeling fine,

The brunette's non-verbal complaint spurred Ian to shift upward slightly, barely making room for her hands between them. It was difficult to move away from her welcoming heat, even to finish undressing. He hissed in a breath as her hands, reaching into his waistband for the ties, brushed against his erection.

You're my medicine

Open up and let me in

Her fingers found the dangling ends of the tie, but she was so overwrought with desire that her hands were trembling. It took two tries to get hold of the drawstrings. The feel of him, hard and ready, under the cloth was wonderfully distracting. Sara pulled the cords, making sure her hands brushed over him one last time.

Darling, you're so great,

I can't wait for you to operate

His head fell back and his muscles clenched, clearly fighting the urge to rip the damned trousers off and pound her into the mattress. Sara delighted in his response. It was a heady thing indeed to see a man who was normally so controlled losing it. Pez continued the torture, nimbly unbuttoning his pants, little glancing touches from her fingers against his erection making him groan and tremble above her.

Get up, get up, get up,

Let's make love tonight

"Hold on," Ian whispered, his breath hot against her ear, as he moved her hands from the open vee to the waistband of his pants again. He shifted over her, moving until her legs were sandwiched between his again.

Confused but more than willing to play along, Sara did as she was told. She held tight to the cotton, wondering what he was up to.

Wake up, wake up, wake up,

'cause you do it right

Ian came up on hands and knees and began to crawl up her body. The pants, trapped in Pezzini's grasp, could not move with him. The cloth slithered down his legs as he continued to move upward.

I can't wait for you to operate  
When I get this feeling,

I need sexual healing

With the first tug of fabric, Sara realized what was going on. She dropped her gaze to watch as the cotton was peeled back; slowly revealing hard, muscular flesh. He was riding high against his stomach he was so aroused, and Pez wondered how the real thing would measure up to her dream.

Oh, when I get this feeling,

I need sexual healing

She was fascinated by the way he moved as he stalked up her body. His slow progress reminded her of a panther stalking his prey, hungry and intent. Primal. Sexy as Hell. Sara felt like purring herself as she watched his sleekly muscled form climbing past her face. Oh yes, her imagination had good taste.

Oh, when I get this feeling, I need sexual healing  
Ohh

Just as the last notes of the singer began to fade, Ian's left foot moved out of the cotton, followed on the next forward movement with his right. Freed of garment and song, he reversed his progress, backing down her aroused body. When he reached her waist, he paused to pluck the trousers from her hands and throw them to the side.

Slanting a glance upward, Nottingham lowered his face to her stomach. The sheet had slipped downward with his movements until it rested around her navel. He took the sheet in his teeth and continued to back down her legs, pulling the cloth with him until she was as bare as he.

He had to know she was ready for him, had to have breathed her arousal as his nose had skimmed over the dark curls that hid the source of the fire that was burning her up inside. He settled back over her and she reveled in the feeling of skin against skin.

"Open up and let me in," Nottingham quoted huskily, his voice gone deeper than the singer's with desire.

Never one to do things halfway, Sara wrapped her legs around his waist, "Like this?" She purred against his ear before giving it a quick nip.

Ian slid into her, making Sara moan. He arched against her in response, pressing deeper, before drawing back. She was so hot, so wet, and he filled her perfectly. The long, slow strokes were sending her out of her mind.

"Faster," Sara demanded, raking her nails down his spine to show him she meant business. He'd been driving her crazy all the way through what had to be the longest song in the universe, and he thought he could keep right on teasing?

"I won't last if you keep that up," Ian warned; his breathing uneven, but he obeyed her command.

His hips rose and fell to a new rhythm, making them both gasp and moan. The bed shook under them, her cries spurring him on.

Suddenly, it wasn't the bed shaking, it was her. Someone had grabbed Sara by the shoulders and was rattling her right out of her good dream. Pez gritted her teeth and came awake under protest. She opened eyes gone dark with frustrated passion and growled, "Somebody better be dead, or you're gonna be."

"Well, it's definitely still you. I was worried. You started mumbling and thrashing. I thought you were duking it out with Ceto again." Gabe was leaning over her, one hand jerking away from her shoulder, the other holding the golden blade.

"Nope, false alarm. I'm fine." Sara stared at him like she was contemplating ways to flay him with the knife in his hand.

"Then what were you dreaming about?" Gabriel asked suspiciously.

"I was chasing bad guys Gabe. What else does a cop dream about?" Sara bluffed, even as she felt a blush heating her cheeks.

"I'm sure I don't know." Bowman chuckled, not missing the rising color. Pez was blushing, which put a whole new light on the situation.

"Since you've got me up anyway, why don't you go call Manny's for Chinese. I'm starving, and Nottingham is gonna need to eat when he wakes up." Sara ordered.

"You want your usual?" Gabriel took the hint and stood up.

"Yeah, but I don't know about him. Why don't you get broccoli beef and anything chicken and veggies that aren't breaded. He should eat one of those, as much as he's always after me to eat vegetables." Sara shrugged, the gesture causing the sheet to drop. She caught it before it could slip too far.

"Works for me," Gabe headed for the kitchenette where she kept the menus stuck on the refrigerator.

-o-


	20. First Aid, Fast Food

DwD

First Aid, Fast Food

Nottingham waited until Bowman left the room before opening his eyes. He had been awakened by the younger man's invasion of his space. Even exhausted and wounded, he could not sleep through a relative stranger coming that close, especially not with the tang of metal and magic stinging his nostrils.

The sharp pain from his knee told Ian that he must have passed out before he could put it back in the socket. It would be harder to reset now, and more painful. He was not looking forward to the act, but the pain would subside a great deal once it was done. The same could not be said for his chest. Burns take longer to heal, especially ones as deep as this one was. The location didn't help either. It was damn near impossible to immobilize one's torso. Every time he moved the muscles would pull against the burn, no matter how careful he was.

At least he had gotten to hold Sara while he slept. The feel of her in his arms more than made up for the discomfort of his leg and the burn on his chest. In spite of his injuries, it was tempting to lay here and continue to feign sleep, just so he could savor the contact. Unfortunately, Sara was awake and asking for food. She would be getting up soon; he could feel the tensing of her muscles as she shifted away from him.

"Sara," Nottingham croaked, his throat dry.

"Hey there. How are you feeling?" Sara rested her head on her hand and looked at him with concern.

"I have been worse," Ian grimaced as he shifted.

"Well that's some comfort I suppose. Can you get up? We ought to clean that burn, they get infected so easily, especially when they're deep like that." Sara stared at the scorched circles in his chest.

"I need to set this knee before I do anything else." Nottingham slowly straightened his body out, "and I'm going to need your help to do it."

"What happened to your knee?" Sara asked as she crawled down to his legs. She had a sudden flashback of her dream and blushed. Pez ducked her head, hoping her hair would hide her face from Ian. She did NOT want to explain herself just now.

"You know what to do?" Ian asked as Sara began to gently feel the injury.

"Yeah, although it's usually shoulders I'm doing this for. Brace yourself; we'll go on three. Ready? One…" Sara pulled without waiting for three, knowing it was best if the person you were working on hadn't tensed up yet, which they inevitably did if you went the full count.

There was a sickening popping sound, followed by pain so sharp that Nottingham had to fight back the bile that rose up in his throat. The agony faded to a dull ache with gratifying swiftness, but Ian knew he wasn't going to be dancing any time soon.

"I need to wrap this. I'll be right back." Sara jumped up and hurried into the bathroom. She came back with an x-brace, a roll of bandages, and a bottle of peroxide.

Nottingham eyed the black brace in surprise. It was more than he had expected. He raised a brow at her, "I've never seen you wear knee support."

"I haven't needed to for a long time. This is a leftover from when I crashed and burned my last bike. I wrenched my knee bailing when the poor old hognose went down, and I never throw medical stuff away. You never know when you'll need it again." Sara paused and rolled her eyes, "Especially considering my line of work."

"What's a hognose?" Ian asked as Sara opened the Velcro tabs on the brace and slid the back half under his leg.

"It's a particular style of vintage Harley. They're cool, but the vibration on them is a bitch. I was always doing maintenance on the old beast, because it would eventually shake everything loose if you didn't." Sara settled the black fabric and pulled the Velcro tight. "The Buell is actually a better bike for me, I don't have as much free time to tinker as I did back before I made detective."

"Do you ever miss it?" Nottingham responded to the wistfulness of her tone.

"The old Hog, or free time?" Sara shrugged as she reached for the peroxide.

"Both. Either."

"Yes, sometimes. I put a lot of sweat and blood into that bike." Sara sighed, remembering satisfaction of working on the motorcycle herself, as well as the barked knuckles from slipped wrenches.

"And the free time?" Ian persisted.

"No. Hell no. Free time leaves you too much time to think." Sara grimaced; she'd had enough of that, thank you very much.

"Are you sure that isn't just your recent enforced inactivity coloring your perspective?" Nottingham quirked his lips up in a half-smile, knowing the answer but unable to resist asking.

"Maybe a little," Sara looked up at him through a fall of dark brown hair. Her green eyes darkened, "What I really miss are the days when Danny was still single, and we'd wind down from a tour of duty with a pizza and a couple games of pool."

"Yeah, those were the days, weren't they?" Danny's voice came out of the blue. "I could go for a slice and a Newcastle right about now."

Sara jerked her head around, mouth open in shock. "Danny?" She looked around, but he wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"Sara?" Ian drew her attention back to him.

"I just heard Danny's voice. I don't see him, but I heard him." Pez seemed upset.

"The Witchblade is beginning to recover from your mutual ordeal. Although the Gauntlet is not yet strong enough to completely pierce the Veil, it would appear." Nottingham was encouraged by the improvement. He had spent the last few weeks worrying about wielder and weapon.

"Hmmph," Sara gave a noncommittal grunt that could have been anything from agreement to disgust.

"It is a good sign. I was afraid the Gauntlet had been permanently damaged, but if you can hear Woo's voice, surely you will be able to see him again soon." Nottingham tried to build her enthusiasm for bearing the Blade again. Sara was still of two minds about taking the Witchblade back. She was not likely to be excited over the Witchblade's recovery, since it would be using it's powers to guide her again, unless he pointed out the other advantages it brought.

Sara said nothing for a long moment, just wrapped her hand around the wrist with the Gauntlet and stared at nothing, eyes unfocused. "That's really the only thing I missed about the Witchblade. The whole time I was in the hospital, I kept expecting Danny to appear. I wanted to talk to him so much, even if I did have to exercise confusion tolerance for some of the conversation."

"Confusion tolerance?" Ian raised a brow.

"You know, the ability to tolerate… confusion." Pez shook her head, a rueful smile crossing her face. "There were times when I would have throttled Danny, if I could have gotten my hands on him. Why he couldn't just tell me in plain English, I'll never know. Wise Asian master, my ass."

"He may not have been able to tell you. There are constraints placed on spirits that limit how much they may interfere with the physical realm. I'm sure Woo did the best he could." Nottingham did his best to console her.

"I know, I know. It's just frustrating. Kinda like talking to you, mister cryptic advice." Sara gave him a dirty look as she opened the bottle of peroxide and soaked a cotton ball in the liquid.

Nottingham ducked his head, "I have been under orders as well. I told you as much as I could without violating my oaths. Believe me, it was more than Irons wanted me to impart."

"Which just happened to be enough to make me crazy." Sara grumbled as she looked at the burn, hand hesitating over the circles, and wondered where to begin.

"I do not believe you are crazy," Ian looked up at her through the veil of his lashes.

"Yeah? Can I quote you on that? Because it seems to be a matter of debate." Pez remembered what Joe had told her the last time they had talked. Upset again, she upended the bottle and poured peroxide straight on the burn.

Nottingham curled reflexively when the icy liquid spilled across his chest, which pulled the muscles attached to the burn. For a long moment he was afraid to breathe, knowing it would add to his suffering.

"Ouch Pez. Florence Nightingale you are not." Gabriel said as he looked down at Sara and her hapless patient.

"Shouldn't you be hacking the Pentagon or something?" Sara glared at Gabe. Deserving criticism and taking it well were two totally unrelated things.

"That's so nineteen-eighties. If I were to do something like that, I'd go for a hard target, like Bill Gates personal porn archive or something." Bowman rolled his eyes, "I just happened to see these scissors while I was looking for a pen to write the total for our order down, and figured you'd need them to cut the rest of Nottingham's shirt off."

"Why would I do that?" Sara hoped her blush would pass unnoticed. She could think of several good reasons to rip Ian's clothes off, but all of them were naughty, and SO did not include Gabriel.

"I saw his burn when you found the Witchblade. There was no way he was going to be able to pull what was left of his shirt over his head with that kind of damage. He looks like a bull that got on the wrong end of a cowboy with a branding iron." Gabe passed her the scissors.

"Lovely image there Gabe." Sara shook her head.

Nottingham eyed Bowman. It was an odd phrase for a New Yorker, especially one so in to computers. Was he hinting that he knew something about the White Bulls? The younger man had quite a varied and eclectic storehouse of artifacts and knowledge. It was possible.

"Hey, it's true." Gabriel shrugged and sat back down at his computer. He angled the screen so he could see the two of them out of the corner of his eye. The change in Sara's attitude toward Nottingham had not escaped his attention, but until he knew why, he would continue to treat the dark-haired man with caution.

Sara opened and closed the scissors experimentally. They seemed ok, which was a miracle, considering she used them for everything from paper to plastic. Gingerly she slid the blades into the burned hole, pulling the fabric out and away from his body with her other hand.

After a moment of internal debate, Pez decided to cut up first, since there wasn't so much fabric going that way. A few snips later, the collar proving more resistant to the shears than the rest of the shirt, the strong column of throat and a lopsided vee of chest were exposed.

Now it was time to deal with the bottom half of the shirt. Sara slid her hand up under fabric to lift it away from his skin, fingers brushing over his torso as she did so. Throat dry at the feel of crisp chest hair and hard muscle, Sara moved to place the scissors at the bottom of the charred circle.

A glance upward through long lashes showed that Ian had not been unaffected by her touch. His eyes glittered down at her, the desire in them easily read. Sara looked back down, knowing she wasn't steady enough to do this with her attention divided.

The bottom of his shirt yielded much more easily than the top half had. In moments the black fabric parted and, following gravity, dropped away from his torso. Even with the burn marring the perfection of his chest, Sara couldn't help but stare. Damn, but Ian was hot.

Ok, so she knew that already, but… damn.

Sara closed her eyes and fought to rein in her libido. A shudder passed over her frame, echoing the fine tremors in her hands. She still had to put the antibacterial ointment on the burn and cover it with gauze, and neither job should be attempted by someone with hands shaking as much as hers were. She wanted nothing more than to cut the rest of his clothes off and prove in the most basic manner possible that she was still alive.

Unfortunately, that was not going to happen, no matter how much Sara might want it to. Nottingham needed a far different kind of healing than she'd been dreaming about. Finally pulling herself together, Sara dabbed ointment over the burn and laid the gauze pad over it. At least the heat of the burn had scorched off the chest hair, so she didn't have to worry about trying to shave the area she was working with. Her hands weren't that steady.

"There you go, all patched up." Sara sat back on her heels.

"Thank you Sara." Nottingham nodded gravely at her. "I will need to leave soon and report to Irons."

"What? Are you high? You just stay put, Irons is a big boy. He can wait to see you." Sara planted a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving.

"I have to tell him what just happened here." Ian objected, but made no effort to move. He would much prefer to stay here with Sara than return to Kenneth.

"Hell, you got a phone, call him if it's that damn important." She narrowed her eyes. Nottingham might be some kind of military-trained and enhanced super soldier, but he still needed to stay off that knee. Kenny could just wait.

Ian winced at the idea. Irons would be furious if he made such a report over a device that was not secure. "I will wait, if it will please you."

"Yeah, it pleases me." Pez watched him for another minute, to make sure he was really going to stay put, and then stood up. "You need a drink or anything?"

"Water would be much appreciated, thank you." Nottingham watched her head for the kitchenette.

"So, what do we do next?" Gabe asked from behind his hand. He had put it there to hide his smile; they were just so cute together. Sara was already bossing Nottingham around like they were an old married couple.

"What do you mean, next?" Sara asked as she passed him.

"The Witchblade may keep Ceto from possessing your body, but I doubt it's going to keep her from coming after you again. We need a plan, or you're gonna get your ass kicked." Gabe shook his head. "It's not like she doesn't know where you live or anything."

"I believe I can be of some assistance as far as protecting the apartment. There are certain wards that can be set that will keep her out, now that she doesn't have access through Lady Sara," Ian tilted his head so he could see what kind of reaction that bit of news would bring. Pezzini really didn't like the supernatural. Sure enough, her shoulders stiffened. Sara didn't say anything though, just continued on her errand.

Gabe was watching him, intrigued by the idea. "So what do we do?"

Ian shifted in a vain effort to get comfortable, and began to explain. By the time the delivery boy showed up with the Chinese food, he had told Bowman everything he knew about the warding, and was grateful for the interruption. Gabriel had been asking him rather pointed questions about his relationship with Sara.

Ian was not comfortable with the gleam in the younger man's eyes. Nottingham knew he was being teased, he just didn't know how to respond to it. If he knocked Bowman out, as would be his normal response to such invasive questioning, Sara would not be pleased.

The fact that dinner was take-out was a little disappointing. Ian thought he had impressed upon Sara the need for better eating habits. He looked up from the little white cartons to lecture, "This is hardly nutritious. The cabinets and refrigerator are both well stocked, surely something better for you could have been made."

"Hey, there's vegetables in here!" Sara objected, waving a snow pea in her chopsticks for emphasis.

"Fried in oil," Gabe pointed out.

"Thanks for the support there buddy." Sara glared at Bowman, feeling ganged up on. "Whose side are you on anyway?"

"Hey, you're the one who's been in the hospital. Besides, he's bigger than you are." Gabriel laughed and held up his box of General Tso's to block the vegetable projectile Sara threw at him.

Dinner was filled with laughter and camaraderie. Ian hesitantly joined in, not quite sure how to go about it. This was an entirely new social situation for him, and he didn't want to screw it up. When the fortune cookies were brought out at the end of the meal, Nottingham was surprised to discover he had enjoyed himself immensely.

Ian didn't want the night to end, but the wards needed to be put up, and then he needed to return to the mansion. In the morning he would have to make his report, if Irons did not ask for him upon his return.


	21. And You thought I forgot about the tape

Chapter 21

McCarty sat in his car outside of Sara's apartment building, a copy of the original tape in his hand. The lab had gone over the video very carefully, and declared it authentic. They'd even begun investigating the instances James Pezzini had sited during the recording.

He wasn't sure he should show the tape to Pezzini, his gut told him it might push her into doing something rash, but after the meeting he knew he was out of choices. Most of the senior members of his department had been present at yesterday's dinner. There wasn't anyone else left to bring into this who was capable of watching his back. At least not that was in a position to do so.

"Oh be honest with yourself you idiot. You just don't want to see her go down like her old man did." Jake muttered to himself. The other reason was valid, he did need help, it just wasn't the main reason he wanted to tell Sara what was going on.

Promises had been made, and McCarty intended to keep them. The best way to do that was to warn Sara about what was going on, to let her know what had happened to her father, and could happen to her. Pez needed to be on her guard, or she was going to fall into the White Bulls trap.

Decision made, Jake climbed out of his car and walked across the street. It was windy, the breeze cutting through his jeans and chilling his legs. When it got like this, McCarty really wished he were back in California. Every day of a New York winter was grey and dim. If it wasn't cloudy, it was smoggy, and McCarty missed the sun.

The tape was safely tucked inside his coat, the outline concealed by the loose shape of the bomber-style jacket. The paperwork in his hand was a little more camouflage. It was from the Venner case, just in case Sara's apartment was being watched. Or he was. The files would camouflage his reason for being here quite nicely.

He'd already complained to Dante that the investigation was beating him up, so if any of the Bulls stopped him, he could say he was frustrated enough to let Pez have a shot at the case. They might bust his balls a little, since Pezzini hadn't been cleared to return to work, but the excuse would hold.

McCarty made it to Sara's door without being challenged. He hadn't seen any signs of surveillance, which surprised him. Surely as seriously as Dante wanted to bounce Pezzini, he would have been keeping tabs on her whereabouts?

Well, maybe not. The detective lived for her job. She didn't have any social interaction to speak of outside of the department. It was kind of hard to blackmail someone with no private life. Jake shook off his musings and knocked on the door.

"Jake," Sara sounded pleased to see him when she opened the door.

Dark hair fell down around her shoulders, looking like it hadn't seen a brush yet. She was dressed in a pair of sweats and a tee shirt, and Jake wondered if he had woken Sara up. She looked a little thin still, but her color wasn't quite as bad as it had been the last time he'd visited her in the hospital.

Feeling like a fraud, McCarty smiled back at her, "Hello Sara. How are you feeling?"

"Doing better. I'm hoping the docs clear me to get back to work. I'm bored." Pez looked down at the manila folder in Jake's hand and a spark of anticipation lit her eyes, "Is that a case in your hands, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Yes," McCarty chuckled. To his ears it sounded forced, but Pezzini didn't seem to notice.

"Well, since you come bearing something more entertaining than what passes for TV these days, come in. I'll make coffee." Sara backed away from the door.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Nottingham moved a bit stiffly, one leg not performing as it should. Kenneth narrowed pale blue eyes as his servant came before him. There was a brace on the younger man's knee. One eyebrow rose in question as Nottingham came to a halt in front of his desk.

"Ceto has made another attempt on Lady Sara." Ian said calmly, lowering his head in obeisance. It was an answer to the question that did not reveal much, and diverted Irons toward another topic.

"Why would she continue to pursue Pezzini? She no longer possesses the Witchblade, of what possible value could the detective be to the serpent?" Irons stared at the top of the dark head, disliking the fact that he had not anticipated this.

"It is because of the changes the Witchblade has wrought in her. Apparently, the Periculum has made Sara the perfect vessel for preternatural power. Ceto desires her body as a physical housing. An avatar, if you will." Nottingham glanced up, needing to see how Irons was going to take the information.

A muscle tightened in Irons jaw. "Does she now?" His voice was cold.

"Ceto was temporarily successful. I returned to her apartment and found the serpent had taken possession of Sara's body. Loath as I am to admit it, it took the assistance of young Bowman to drive the creature from her body." Ian slumped his shoulders a bit, making sure his voice held a thread of self-reproach.

"You are a warrior, not a priest. I would hardly expect you to be able to achieve something of that nature on your own." Irons waved a hand at the guilty voice. "But I must confess to a certain amount of surprise at your assistant. Gabriel Bowman is not, for all that he handles creations sacred and profane, any more of a spiritual guardian than you are."

"He had a sunsteel dagger with him, and knew the words to the purification ritual. Well," Ian's lips quirked up slightly, "he mostly knew them. His pronunciation and verb agreement could use some work, but it was enough to rouse the blade. After that, I suspect that natural enmity made the sunsteel attack as it was created to do."

"Why was he carrying such a weapon, at such an auspicious moment? I do not believe in chance, Ian." Kenneth leaned forward, interested in the reply.

"Apparently Ceto has entered her dreams before this, and Sara did not wish for the visitations to continue. She called Bowman; since he is the only person she is comfortable with who has any kind of education in the occult." Nottingham shifted his shoulders in a little almost-shrug.

"And he just happened to bring something powerful enough to defeat Ceto?" Irons voice was filled with disbelief.

"Bowman had brought several items with him to her apartment, not just the sunsteel. I took the liberty of investigating them. They were all for protection from spirits or evil sendings. I believe the weapon may have used the boy, instead of the other way around. His Greek really was atrocious." Ian did not shrug again, his chest was still paining him from the last time he had done so.

"It is possible. Some of the more powerful artifacts do have a will of their own." Irons touched the now-bare top of his hand in remembrance.

"Exactly so." Nottingham agreed.

"Have Dr. Immo take a look at that leg of yours, then send him up to me. We have things to discuss." Irons dismissed his servant.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

"I didn't really come here to discuss the Venner case with you." Jake sighed and ran his hand through his hair, wondering how to do this.

"Then why did you bring the file?" Sara looked up from the report she had scattered all across the table.

"Window dressing. I couldn't be sure you weren't being watched, so I wanted an excuse handy if Dante questioned me later." McCarty paced, eyes glancing over the row of windows that ran the length of the studio apartment. He still wasn't sure they weren't being watched. The neighboring rooftop offered an excellent view of the inside of the apartment.

Catching the way Jake was warily checking the skyline, Sara got up and closed the blinds. "I doubt there's anyone out there, but that should make you feel better."

"Why do you sound so sure?"

"There's not room for two on that fire escape." Sara paused and gave a little smirk.

"Two? I thought you said no one was out there?"

"Ah, don't worry about it. My sense of humor is still a little off." Pezzini shrugged, not wanting to explain Nottingham to her rookie partner. Hell, she was still trying to understand what was going on with that relationship herself.

"I came here today because there have been some things come to light that make it impossible for me to keep this back from you." Jake opened the leather holder that most detectives carried their badges in. The familiar NYPD shield flashed in the overhead light as he popped the snaps. On the opposite side of the leather was another badge, one that named him as a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigations.

"What? Oh I get it… and you think my sense of humor is warped." Sara took the leather holder from him and angled it to try and spot the inconsistency that would mark it as a fake. "Where did you get this? It looks pretty good. If I didn't know better I'd swear you were a Feebie."

"I am a…" McCarty hesitated over the word. It sounded so unprofessional, which was not the image he wanted to present just now, "Feebie. I work for the F.B.I. as an undercover operative. I've been assigned to investigate your department."

"Get out!" Sara's voice was filled with disbelief.

"Shouldn't that be my line?" Jake gave a rueful grin. "I know it's hard to believe. I've worked very hard to present the 'surfer dude' persona, but that is all it is. A mask."

"Saying I believe you, which I don't, why would you tell me now?" Skeptical green eyes raked over him.

"Two reasons. First, I need help. I didn't realize until last night just how widespread the corruption is. Second," McCarty pulled the videotape out of his inside coat pocket and fed it into her VCR. "There's something I think you should see."

The tape quality wasn't as good as the original, it was just a touch grainy, but the weariness and determination in James' voice and face were clear enough. "My name is Officer James Pezzini, New York Police Department, badge number 7945."

"Daddy?" The voice was so lost that Jake bowed his head. He was an utter bastard to show this to her, especially with no warning to soften the blow.

Without mercy, the video continued over Sara's grief, "The date is February 22, 1984. If you're watching this ... it means that I'm already dead."

"Oh my God." Sara was on her knees, one hand reaching for the screen. Tears were falling, ignored, in a steady silver stream down her face.

"And if I am, the likely reason is I've been working to expose a corrupt secret society within the New York P.D. They call themselves the White Bulls. They rule by intimidation. They, they abuse the badge in every possible way. And this," James Pezzini paused to hold up a spent shell casing, "… is their trademark."

"Son of a bitch." Sara breathed, eyes locked on the brass cartridge. Jake got the feeling she had seen it somewhere before.

"They use this round when the Bulls want to assassinate one of their enemies. If one of their members finds this shell at a murder scene, he'll desist in his investigation of that crime. And they're currently in a renaissance, led by this deadly band of new young recruits ... most notably a rising young sergeant by the name of Bruno Dante."

"I'll kill him," Sara growled, coming to her feet in a rush.

"Sara, you can't. Think, damn it. His life isn't worth spending the rest of yours in a cell." McCarty moved to stand between her and the door. "Don't go off half-cocked."

"Get the fuck out of my way Jake." Sara's voice was raw with pain and anger.

"No. I won't let you do this to yourself." McCarty's eyes softened in the face of all that pain, his voice gentler when he added, "Your dad wouldn't have wanted you to go outside the law Sara."

"Oh yeah? Well he's not exactly here to ask, is he? And it's all that fucking Dante's fault. Son of a bitch, I should have realized something was wrong. Gallo was too fucking smug when I busted him. He knew he was gonna get off, he was the new Captain's personal goddamn batman." Sara glared at McCarty and took another step forward.

"Dante got off because Gallo never went to trial, but I doubt it fell out the way Tommy thought it would. After all, nobody has to worry about a confession from a dead man." Jake paused, wondering how much to tell her, then decided to go for broke. "Do you want everyone else who was involved to walk? They will, you know. Without Dante, I can't get to the next link in the chain, and you had better believe there is one."

"Irons." Sara whispered so softly that even she could barely hear it. McCarty couldn't possibly know what she knew, what she had seen.

It made a sick kind of sense. Yet another coincidence that wasn't, not once you had all the facts. Losing her father had made her vulnerable in so many ways, had hurt her, weakened her, made her easier to manipulate, to blind.

Sara looked up, met pale blue eyes. Cop eyes. Hard, cynical, but they still somehow managed to convey care for the fucked up mess that was humanity. It was the same thing she saw in the mirror every day, and for the first time since McCarty had walked in the door, she believed him. She'd never seen that look from 'rookie boy'. If Jake could lie with his eyes, he had to be FBI. "What do we need to do first?"

"Somehow, we've got to get Dante cold, and we've got to do it quiet. He's been damn careful so far. The only thing I can get him for right now is harassment. He's getting ready to do a smear campaign on you. That's the only thing he's come right out and done himself, even in a meeting that was supposedly all White Bulls he made sure not to actually say that they were taking money. Do you have any ideas on how to shake him out of his caution?"

"I may have an idea, but I need to talk to someone first," Sara prevaricated. She believed that Jake was FBI, which meant that telling him about Joe would only get Siri in trouble too. For old times sake, she'd give Joe a chance to come clean to her. If he didn't, she'd throw him to the wolves. Or, in this case, the FBI.

"Come on Sara, I shared with you. Give me something. I know you've seen that bullet before." McCarty pushed. If he didn't get equal treatment now, he never would. Pezzini would revert to the uneven relationship they had had when she thought he was an idiot rookie.

"You remember Brian Reilly? That kid who thought he was some reincarnated druid?" Sara decided to share this much. It didn't have any links to Joe, and would keep him busy while she checked in on the man who had practically raised her.

"Yeah, what about him?" Jake stopped, thrown by what seemed a complete change of topic.

"I found one of those custom carve jobs on a brass I picked up at the site of his shooting. I don't know who killed Reilly, at the time I thought it might have something to do with the whole 'mystical druid' business." Sara shook her head at her own stupidity.

She'd let those visions of the past from the Witchblade blind her to what was happening in the present. The case had been so full of holes, it wasn't even funny, but they'd gone ahead and closed it. Bad guy found and slain. No need to look any further, right? Wrong.

"Why would you think that?" McCarty broke into her self-recrimination.

"Come on Jake, bulls have been a symbol all through Celtic mythology. How was I supposed to know there was a bunch of corrupt cops using the symbol? I think we need to dig in to that case a little deeper. Why would the Bulls cap a nut job?" Pez watched McCarty take the bait, his attention shifted away from what she was about to do.

"I can pull those files, and have Reilly's background checked into. Maybe there's something there we overlooked since we didn't know to look for it." Jake looked at her, wondering what she was holding back. He'd find out soon enough, he was the only person Sara could trust. Now that he'd gotten her to share information that she had not seen fit to exchange with 'rookie boy', McCarty could afford to wait for the rest.


	22. The Confrontation

Chapter 22: The Confrontation

o

Feeling a little paranoid, Sara waited until the sun went down before heading for Joe's. It would be a Hell of a lot harder to see her leave, much less be able to follow her after dark. A motorcycle handled better in traffic, and with the way she drove, there wasn't a soul alive that could keep up with her.

The Siris lived about thirty minutes away, given usual traffic conditions. With the extra detouring and doubling back to check and see if she was being followed, it took her forty-five. She didn't see anyone suspicious. If there had been a tail, Pez was confident she'd lost it.

The residential district Sara drove into looked a little less run down at night. The neighborhood had been built in the fifties, and over time it had become genteelly shabby. In the dark you couldn't see the signs of decay. Sara parked her bike and walked slowly up the five concrete steps to the covered porch of the Siri residence.

Pez raised a hand to knock and hesitated. Now that she was here, she wasn't sure she wanted to have this conversation. She was still hurting from their last discussion. How many more painful revelations could she take? Sara straightened her spine. She could take it because the alternative was untenable. She would not let her father's killers escape justice.

Knuckles rapped on wood with aggression, anger carrying Pezzini forward to the confrontation that had been brewing ever since the day Joe had been the one to tell her that her father had died in the line of duty. The day that Siri began the lie that protected murderers. This conversation should have been had a long, long time ago.

"Sara? What brings you out to suburbia so late? What time is it anyway?" Joe pretended to be looking at his watch because he couldn't look Pez in the eye.

"It's late. It's too damn late, but we're gonna do this anyway." Sara glared, green eyes snapping fire.

"What're you talking about?" Siri shook his head, confusion crossing his features.

"The White Bulls, Joe. Talk to me," Sara snapped the words off like rounds from her Glock.

"There's nothing to talk about." Joe closed his eyes, feeling every minute of his years, every ounce of the burden he carried, and would carry for the rest of his life.

"Like Hell there isn't. My dad trusted you. I trusted you. You practically raised me. So please don't lie to me any more, Joe. I can't take it. It's tearing me apart." Sara's anger was eclipsed by pain. This was her surrogate father, the man who had bounced her on his knee and been the shoulder she cried on. How could he do this to her?

Joe flinched from the look in her eyes. "Sara, what I told you wasn't a lie. James died because he was fighting the good fight, it just wasn't the battle you knew about."

"Why didn't you tell me?" It was a plea for understanding, hoping against hope that Siri would somehow say something that would make it all right, would excuse the lie.

"You were in no position to right this wrong, but you'd have tried. There were too many of them, still are. They'll kill you if you get in their way. I couldn't stand to lose you too." Siri looked at the woman who was as close to his heart as a daughter. Going to her funeral would have broken him.

"Then help me. Together we have a chance," Pez pleaded.

"Oh Sara, you have no idea what you're up against. My help wouldn't even begin to be enough." Joe shook his head sadly.

"Who's help should I ask for, then? Anyone I approach could be one of them." Sara paused, wondering if he knew that McCarty was F.B.I. If he didn't, she wasn't going to break Jake's cover. If Siri had already figured out the Feebie, it would be best to find out now, so she could tell Jake right away that he'd been made.

"There isn't anybody that's clean in this town with enough clout to help you. Do you think I never went looking, just like you're doing now? The only difference between us is, I already knew what was going on." Siri stepped deeper into the shadow left by the porch roof support column.

"What IS going on?" Sara knew his retreat for what it was. Joe was still afraid, even after all these years. The brunette was starting to get angry again. Why wouldn't the stubborn old bastard pull his head out and help her? "Come on Joe, the truth."

"The White Bulls killed your father." Siri paused and held up a hand when Pez would have spoken, "Gallo may have pulled the trigger, but it was a contract hit, and Dante was the one who ordered it done."

"And you knew this because?" Suspicion, a detective's constant companion, began to speculate over just how long Joe had been tangled up in the White Bulls, and how deep he was in.

"Because Dante and your old man had clashed before. James hated everything Bruno stood for, and he wasn't shy about his disapproval. Because I caught the roll-out. And, uh ..." Joe stepped back again, toward the door. "Come on in. I've got something to show you."

Pezzini followed Siri into the house, wondering what he was going to bring out. Did he have another copy of the tape, or was this going to be something else?

"Thank god it's the wife's bridge night." Joe mumbled as he headed for the fireplace. He didn't even want to think about Marie's reaction to all of this. She would not understand, and would probably be very angry with him over the situation.

Siri took a small box from the mantle and opened it. "I found this on the ground beside James' body. It's the White Bulls warn-off. Even back then it was worth your career, if not your life, to investigate a scene like that too deeply."

Sara took the shell casing that Siri held out to her. She turned it in her hand; pretty sure that she would see a bull engraved on the brass. When the dark shape was revealed, she looked up, "What did you do then?"

"Not a damn thing. What could I do? The Bulls were all around. I could feel eyes boring into my back for weeks afterwards. I know they were watching me. Marie and I were just married. We were about to have our first baby. I know it sounds cowardly, but I didn't want to be next."

Even though she knew it had to be something like this, Sara felt betrayed all over again. She stared down at the casing, the bull seeming to toss his horns in challenge. Pez blinked and the engraving was still again. It hadn't moved, her eyes were beginning to tear. Sara blinked harder, she would not cry, she wouldn't.

"Could you please say something?" Joe looked at the top of her bent head. She was staring at the spent brass as if willing it to give up all its secrets.

"Uh ... like what, Joe? Like, 'Yeah, it sounds pretty chicken-shit to me'?" Sara growled around a throat tight with suppressed tears.

"I knew I didn't stand a chance. I was alone, and scared." Siri tried to explain, even though he didn't feel that he deserved her understanding.

"So was Dad. It didn't stop him." Pez looked up finally, eyes wet and full of reproach.

"He was a better man than I am." Joe leaned against the mantle for support; gripping the box so tightly his knuckles were white. "I don't expect your sympathy, Sara. I've carried this burden ever since that night and it has cost me dearly."

"It's cost you? What about me?" Sara's voice was filled with incredulous fury. How dare he say that? What did his suffering weigh in the face of hers?

Joe bowed his head in the face of her wrath. There was nothing he could say; he'd put both his feet in his mouth that time. He'd lost a friend, but Sara had lost her father. Her mother had died years before that, and there was no other family for her to turn to. There was no way for him to understand what it was like to be that alone.

"You were right about one thing. I am going after them. I'd hoped you would help me, but if you're too big a coward to try, then I'll do it without you." Pez turned and walked toward the door. She had to get out before she shot Joe herself, and that wouldn't do.

Dead men don't testify in court, and Siri was damn well going to. He'd just used his last free pass. Sara would call Jake and arrange for them to hook up someplace where they could talk. The Feds would want to pick up Joe once they heard what she had to say.

The shell casing burned in her fist as she stalked toward her motorcycle. The brass went into a zippered jacket pocket and the Buell started with a roar that echoed the fury in her heart. Sara paused, hand on the throttle, and looked back at Joe's house. "I'm sorry it had to go down this way Joe, but I can't let it go."

As Pezzini peeled out, a man sat up in his car seat. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and dialled. "Hey B, we got a problem with a capital P."

"Make sure Joe doesn't leave. I'm coming over." The voice of Bruno Dante came back over the line.

"No problem." The shadowy figure disconnected the line and sat back to wait.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

A/N: OK, is anyone still reading? I know it's taking a bit longer between posts, but I think the longer chapters and overall cohesion are better for it. Drop me a line, let me know what you think. I enjoy hearing from you all. Your opinion is important to me.


	23. Scotch and Shooters

Scotch and Shooters

o

Jake cursed under his breath. He had lost Sara twice, only the tracking device he'd planted on her Buell allowing him to catch up with her again. When she'd pulled up in front of the house, McCarty had wondered whom she had come to see. This was an old suburb, filled with families and retirees.

When Joe Siri answered the door, Jake smiled. That explained a lot. He pushed an ear bud into place and pointed the listening device at the porch. He felt a small surge of guilt for hearing, much less recording, such a private and emotional conversation, but he squashed the feeling firmly. There was too much at stake for him to get squeamish now.

The conversation ended badly, as Jake had suspected it might. He had been pleasantly surprised that Sara had not broken his cover, not even as an incentive to get the retired captain to help her. He was even happier about that when he realized he wasn't the only one listening in on this conversation. A late model sedan sat a little further up the block, and he could see the edge of a very similar device peeking over the edge of the car's doorframe.

He'd intended to call and arrange a pickup for some point in the next few days, Siri would clearly be an important witness, but something told him he'd better make it happen tonight. Jake waited until Pez roared off on her motorcycle before picking up his phone.

"I need to place a witness in protective custody."

"Uh-huh. I'd feel better if you sent a squad down here. His place is being watched. I don't know how much resistance we're likely to run into."

"Yeah, I'll stay put and monitor the situation until the extraction unit arrives."

"Thanks. It's about time we got a break. No, Pez lead me to this one, I'll pass on the congratulations though." Jake said, wincing. He had no intention of doing any such thing. Sara would be livid if she knew he had followed her and listened in on her chat with Joe.

Well, he had some time to kill; the guys were coming from across town after all. Maybe he could come up with something to tell his partner by the time the extraction unit arrived. If she was mad enough that she didn't try to talk to Joe again for a while, he might be able to get away with not telling her that he followed her at all.

Twenty minutes into his wait, a battered blue Crown Vic came to a stop in front of Joe's house. Glad of the tinting on the windows, Jake watched as Dante slid out of the car and stalked up the steps. He opened the door and went inside while McCarty swore softly, but with feeling. What the fuck was going on?

Jake opened his cell phone and dialed. When the other end picked up, he asked abruptly, "What's the ETA on my backup?"

"They're ten minutes out."

"Shit. Too long. Tell those bastards to get the lead out. What are they afraid of, a speeding ticket?" Jake growled in frustration. He had a very bad feeling about this.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Joe stood by the fireplace, not moving for several minutes. He should have told Sara the truth a long time ago. Maybe he could have saved their relationship if he had, but he had never expected Pez to find out the truth.

How the Hell had she found out anyway? Siri would have bet any amount of money that Dante had covered his tracks better than that. Maybe Gallo had told Sara the truth when she captured him, in some attempt to make a deal?

Feeling the need for a stiff drink, or three, Joe finally moved away from the mantle. He reached for the decanter of scotch and poured a tumbler of the amber liquid. He slammed the contents and refilled his glass. Getting drunk wasn't the solution, but damned if he could think of anything better to do right now.

Hopefully, Marie would be out late with the girls. He didn't want her to see him right now; she'd want to talk about it. Joe could just imagine how that discussion would go. She wouldn't understand, and she'd be pissed. The idea of being in the doghouse with the other important woman in his life made him flinch.

The bottle was halfway empty when the front door opened. So much for Marie not seeing him like this. Crap. He listened as footsteps echoed down the hall, turning off and heading down to the bedroom. After several minutes passed and no cheerful feminine voice called out a greeting, a chill ran down Joe's spine. Marie would have said something by now, even if just to ask where he was, or to start telling him how her night had gone.

Come to think of it, he hadn't heard her car pull up, and with that little muffler problem that he'd been meaning to get around to fixing, he should have. That meant it wasn't Marie, and it wasn't Sara coming back for another round. The Buell was just as loud as Marie's Delta 88.

Joe shifted in his chair to face the entrance to the living room with a sense of fatality. He knew something like this would happen when he talked to Sara, he just thought he'd have a day or two before the Bulls moved on him. He supposed he ought to be afraid, but he just couldn't work up the enthusiasm. He was tired and the scotch had gone to his head, giving the whole thing a kind of fatalistic surrealism.

When the footsteps came back down the hall, hesitating at the threshold, Siri called out, "What took you so long?"

"You finally grew some stones, huh, Joe?" Bruno Dante stepped into the room.

"Yeah. Feels pretty damn good, too." Siri grunted and tossed back another shot. He was mildly surprised that he rated so high. He figured they'd have sent a flunkie.

"What? Telling a girl her dad's a hero instead of telling her the truth?" Dante's voice was incredulous.

"That is the truth. Jim was a hero." Siri poured himself another glass without offering one to Dante. If the bastard was going to shoot him, he could do it thirsty.

"And you're a schmuck. All you did was sign Pezzini's death warrant." Bruno shook his head at the stupidity of the man in front of him.

"Not to mention my own." Joe laughed mirthlessly. He had known what he was doing when he had confessed to Sara. His life just wasn't worth the lie anymore. He was so tired of looking over his shoulder.

Bruno nodded at the sally, a little surprised by how calmly Joe was taking this. Was he that drunk, or did he just not care any more? The old man certainly looked resigned, as if he had been expecting this all along. And so he should have. As long as Joe had kept his silence, Dante had been content to leave him alive. That had all just changed. If he'd tell the bitch, who else would he talk to?

"You're right, Bruno. I did sign two death warrants tonight, but they weren't Sara's and mine. They were mine and yours." Siri raised his glass in salute before tossing it back. He'd done all he could. Sara knew the truth now; at least he had settled that debt.

Returning the gesture, Dante raised the revolver he had been carrying in his hand. It was an old wheel gun, like the department used to issue, back when he'd been an idealistic young officer. Bruno had lost that innocence long ago, but he still knew to check the direction of the revolver's revolution.

With a flick of his thumb and a practiced twist of the wrist, the cylinder opened and spun to the left. The powder caps of six .38 mm shells glinted up at him. "Joe, I found this in your room. You don't mind if I use it, do you?"

Joe waved his hand casually, sort of a 'go ahead' gesture. There was nothing he could do about it now, and he rather thought he deserved this. "Tell Maria I love her, will you?"

"Yeah Joe, I'll do that." Dante takes one of the bullets out and replaces it with one of the Bulls special rounds. Moving the cylinder so that the engraved bullet will be the next under the hammer, Bruno closes the gun and raises it to Siri's head.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

A/N: Thanks for letting me know you're still interested. I appreciate the feedback. I hope you're not to cross over the cliffhanger, but it was the place to stop. The next chapter is at the Beta now, so hopefully I'll have it back andcorrectedon Wednesday or Thursday.


	24. Cover Blown

Cover Blown

o

"You're right, Bruno. I did sign two death warrants tonight, but they weren't Sara's and mine. They were mine and yours." The voice of Joe Siri came over the listening device.

Jake jerked the receiver out of his ear. Fuck! He didn't have time to wait for his goddamn backup. Shoving the listening device onto the dash, Jake opened his car door. He could only hope that the recorder was still pointed in the right direction to continue to document events. He sprinted across the street and bounded up the stairs, gun out and ready in his hand.

The doorknob turned under his hand, Dante must have forgotten to lock it behind him. McCarty rushed down the hall, vaguely aware of a shout behind him. The watcher hadn't noticed Jake until it was too late keep him out of the house, but he could come up behind him and shoot him in the back. Shoulder muscles tensed involuntarily at the thought, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

McCarty burst into the room just in time to see Dante cock the hammer on the revolver he was pressing against Siri's right temple. "Federal Agent! Step away and drop your weapon."

"Very funny McCarty." Bruno looked up in surprised amusement.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Jake had his sights lined up with the middle of Dante's forehead. His face was completely serious.

"Noooo, but you've got to admit the idea is pretty funny. You? A fed? Pull the other one kid." Bruno raised a brow, lips quirked up. It wasn't that he didn't think McCarty was serious, the man facing him bore only a superficial resemblance to the over-eager idiot he'd been dealing with, it was just that he was stalling for time.

"Be amused all you want. We can have a good laugh all the way to the detention center. Just step away from Siri and lay down your weapon." Jake took a step forward, moving into the room so he could get a clearer shot.

"No, I don't think I will." Dante shifted, keeping Joe between him and the blonde with the gun. "In fact, why don't you drop your weapon before Dorfman ventilates your back."

The sudden booming of a gun fired at close range assaulted Jake's ears as a shockwave hit him in the back. As he was going down, he heard Dorfman chuckle, "Too late."

The blow had dropped him to the ground, the pain sharp and hard. His vest had kept the shell from penetrating his body, but he'd still been hit in the middle of the back by something going exceedingly fast. All the air that had been in his lungs danced around his head mockingly, and Jake couldn't seem to remember how to breathe it back in.

"McCarty!" Joe tried to get up, to go to the aid of an officer down, but was pulled back by Dante's hand in his collar.

It had been an instinctual response, even though the blonde had only been one of 'his' people for a less than a year before he had retired. Siri was jolted from his guilt-ridden acceptance of his fate. Now it wasn't just his life, there was an officer dependant on him. If he could distract them, McCarty might just get away. Joe narrowed his eyes and waited for his chance.

"Y'know, I've been wondering how such a fucking moron got promoted to detective," Dante looked over at the downed man, "Thanks for clearing that little mystery up for me."

"Whadda ya want me to do with him?" Dorfman grinned down at the man sprawled facedown in front of him, who was beginning to move.

"Secure him. We need to know what he's told his superiors so we can do damage control." Dante made the mistake of taking the gun away from Joe's head to gesture with it.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Siri lunged out of his chair and spun, tackling Dante. "Get out of here McCarty!" He yelled as the two rolled on the floor, each trying to get control of the gun. Joe was older and out of shape. He'd been riding a desk for too long, instincts dulled by grief and alcohol. The struggle didn't last as long as he'd hoped. Soon enough Dante had him pinned, the gun pressed tight against Siri's temple.

"Now, where were we?" Bruno looked down at Siri, who was panting and shaking with exertion. "Oh yeah. Goodbye Joe."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice was calm and unthreatening, the sound of the safety being clicked off was not.

Dante looked up to see a squad of black body-armour clad men moving into the room. One was cuffing Dorfman, one was kneeling by McCarty, but the rest had their weapons trained on him. His chest was awash with the glowing red dots of their laser scopes.

"Get off him, slowly, and lay down your weapon." The man ordered in that same calm voice. He could have been asking for the salt, but the look in his flat blue eyes and the unwavering barrel of his pistol made it clear that he expected prompt obedience.

There was no way out of this one, and Bruno knew it. He eased back from Joe and dropped the gun. It wasn't his weapon; he could afford to give it up. It would look like he was cooperating, and might buy him a few seconds of inattention in which to go for his .45.

"Place your hands on top of your head, and lace your fingers together."

Dante raised his hands, eyes alert for any chance, but found none. One of the squad moved toward him, careful to stay out of the line of fire. He searched Bruno with quick efficiency, taking the .45 from his shoulder holster, the snub-nose from the small of his back, and the matching snubby from his ankle. Once he'd been patted down, his right hand was cuffed and then brought down and behind. His left was directed to join the right, the cold metal circling both wrists and ending his ideas of breaking loose, at least for now.

The FBI might have been smart enough to get this far, but the White Bulls were better connected than the one precinct that McCarty had been exposed to. There were bigger fish than he, and he knew some of their secrets. Oh, not all of the skeletons, not by any means. Dante didn't fool himself on that score. But he did know too much to be left to the Bureau's tender mercies.

His second in commandhad standing orders to make sure Irons was informed of Bruno's intention to trade information for a commuted sentence. He would make good on his threat too, prison was no place for a police officer. When he didn't show up for work tomorrow, Orlinsky would know what to do.

o


	25. Feebies and Phones

Feebies and Phones

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Still seething, Sara pulled into the parking lot for her apartment building. She dropped the kickstand with more force than was strictly necessary and stripped off her helmet. Stowing it on the back of the bike, Sara pulled her he cell phone out. She dialled as she walked, heading for the entrance.

"Come on, come on," Sara muttered as she listened to the ring tones. She wanted to do this while she was still angry enough to. It was hard, harder than she'd thought it would be, to make the call. Even after everything Joe had done, it still felt like a betrayal on her part.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Who was the traitor here? But that was how it felt to give up her old captain and surrogate father to the Rat Squad. It was so final. Once she told Jake about Siri, it was all over. She couldn't take it back or change her mind.

"Hello," the voice that picked up the line wasn't Jake's. "Who is this?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Sara retorted and narrowed her eyes, wasting a glare on the door to her apartment building. She was nervous about making this call in the first place. The last thing she needed was for Jake to have lost his cell phone somewhere.

"Ah, you must be Detective Pezzini. I'm Agent Myers," The agent's voice was brisk, professional, but with friendly overtones.

Myers might sound perfectly amiable, but Pez wasn't going to believe him to be an agent on his say-so. "Yeah? Well, why don't you put my partner on the line, Agent Myers."

"He's unavailable at the moment. What can I do for you?" Myers was still calm, but the hint of warmth that had been in his voice was gone.

"You can put McCarty on the phone before I bust your ass." Alarm bells were going off. Why couldn't Jake come to the phone? Was he all right?

"McCarty said you were going to be difficult." Myers sounded vaguely amused by her threat.

"You have no idea how difficult I can be." The threat was fired off with flat, cold certainty. That little punk didn't know who he was fooling with. Sara would see how flippant he was once the Witchblade was dimpling his throat.

He must have believed her, because Agent Myers suddenly became more forthcoming. "Look, I can't put him on right now. Your partner was shot in the back less than an hour ago."

"What?" Her voice was high, filled with shock and disbelief.

"And he's being examined right now." Myers kept on talking like she hadn't interrupted.

"How's he doing?" Sara stopped, heart in her throat. Not again, she couldn't take it if she lost another partner. All the pain of losing Danny roared through her, almost bringing her to her knees.

"He was wearing his vest, but the shot was almost point blank. There's some concern about internal bleeding, especially since the impact was directly over his left kidney." Agent Myers gave her the bad news straight up.

"Which hospital are you at?" Sara turned back toward her motorcycle.

"St. Bart's,"

That wasn't too far, by New York standards. In fact, it was pretty much on her way back from Joe's, only further south. If she'd called sooner, she could have saved some driving time. "I can be there in about forty minutes."

"You don't have to come down here. If there's anything wrong, he's going immediately into surgery, and if there isn't, he'll be ready to leave by the time you could get here." Myers sounded surprised that she would bother.

"I don't care. He's my partner. I'll be down." Pezzini shot back, wondering just what Jake was telling everyone about her. Sure she could be an asshole, but did they really think she was that unfeeling?

"If they cut him loose before you get here, I will let him know you are coming."

"Good." Sara fumbled one-handed with the strap holding her helmet to the bike. She was about ready to leave, but she couldn't face the drive without knowing some facts. "How did it happen?"

"He didn't wait for back-up." There was a pause filled with unspoken profanity, "McCarty's lucky to be alive."

"Who shot him?" Pezzini growled.

"Don't worry about it, his assailant has been arrested." Myers clammed up again, giving her absolutely nothing.

"Fine, but who did it?" Sara pushed, feeling like a kid left out of the loop by the grown-ups.

"Look, this line may not be secure. If you're coming down here anyway, the details can wait until we're face to face."

Oh. Well, that makes sense. Pez paused for a moment, letting the implications of that statement sink in. This wasn't some random shooting or an 'officer tries to handle a nutball with a gun at the local convenience store' thing.

"You'd better tell me everything when I get there. I'm sick of stumbling around in the dark." Sara bit out. The house of cards had fallen down around her ears tonight, and she had no tolerance for secret-keeping conspiracy crap left.

"We aren't the only ones holding out Pezzini. You want the truth, you'd better be more forthcoming as well." Myers' voice was as clipped as her own.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sara shot back.

"Don't you detective?" The irony was thick enough to cut.

Pezzini opened her mouth to reply, but found herself talking to the dial tone. She did know, but there was no way HE should. Hell, she'd just found out about most of it tonight. She jammed the phone in her pocket and strapped on the black helmet, her already bad mood taking a nosedive to worse.

"Sonofabitch," Sara complained as she fired up the Buell, "I hate Feebies."

o


	26. Blackmail

Blackmail

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Orlinsky hated to come to the mansion. It was a blatant reminder of just how powerful the man he was coming to see really was. If he had been visiting Irons at Vorshlag, he could always pretend that he was just another suit. Regular corporate greed and power mongering he understood and could deal with.

The detective stared at the ornate door for a moment before it opened. The butler looked him up and down with contempt, taking in the casual clothes and craggy, care-worn face. Orlinsky ignored the disdain. He knew what he was, and he was comfortable with it. No overstuffed toady could bother him.

His employer Mr. Irons, however, was on a whole other level. As Orlinsky followed the butler down ornate hallways that whispered of wealth and power, he was uncomfortably aware of just how easy it would be for something… permanent to happen to him. As the trusted lieutenant of a secret society, he knew how the rules were bent, the wheels were greased, and how problems were taken care of. He was afraid that Dante, and himself by association, had just become one of the latter.

Still, Orlinsky had to try. He owed Bruno that much. Without the White Bulls, he would have lost his purpose. The people he had sworn to protect had proved to be, by and large, worthless scum. Once he'd figured that out, he had started fucking everything off. He drank, even at work. His reports went to Hell, right along with his attitude.

Until Dante had come along and shown him the error of his ways, Orlinsky was heading for a messy ending, the kind of mess that involved a handgun at close range. The White Bulls were small back then, a core group of officers that came together for support, and grew to be something more. They were going to change the world, and they succeeded. The Bulls were his family, his brothers, and he wouldn't let them down.

"Ah Detective, good evening. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Kenneth Irons sounded expansive, but the hand swirling the red wine in his glass was just a shade tense, and his eyes were cold.

Never an idiot, not even back when he'd been drinking, Orlinsky recognised the subtle signs of displeasure and knew to go carefully. "I needed to speak to you, and since the subject matter is somewhat sensitive, I didn't think you would like it if I was seen visiting you at work."

"Really?" Irons arched a brow, inviting the detective to continue.

"We've been keeping Siri under surveillance, ever since his retirement. He never really committed himself, if you know what I mean. We were worried his conscience might start bothering him, or he'd get stupid, and talk to some reporter or something." Orlinsky paused, uncertain how to continue. Anything he said from this point on was almost guaranteed to anger the man in front of him.

"Just how foolish was our dear, dear retired captain?" Kenneth asked negligently.

"Very, apparently. There was a moving van in front of his house when one of our guys came to relieve Dorfman. Fortunately, it was one of our more experienced men. He drove on by, came back on foot with somebody's dog." Orlinsky gave a half-smile.

"Clever." Nottingham spoke for the first time, making Orlinsky start.

He hadn't seen the dark man, standing off in the shadows by the door. Was the assassin there to cut off his escape route? Surely they didn't think he would try anything stupid? Orlinsky wouldn't last the night if he was crazy enough to try and neutralize Irons, and he knew it.

"Yeah. He walked by Dorfman's car first, and it looked like he'd jumped out of it in a hurry. The listening device was sitting in plain sight on the seat, and there was a half-eaten donut on the dash. He walked on down the block and pretended to be a passing acquaintance of the Siri's. He asked a few casual questions; just enough to figure out that the movers were Feds." The detective reached the beginning of the sensitive portion of his narrative and tried not to flinch.

"That could be embarrassing for your Captain Dante, but I fail to see what it has to do with me." Irons relaxed slightly, a smile gracing his face. Orlinsky was confused by his reaction. He had expected Irons to be furious.

"It's already been a problem for Bruno. I tried calling him; he wasn't picking up his cell. On a hunch I called an old friend of mine. Turns out, Dante's already been picked up."

"Again, I fail to see where this concerns me, detective." Irons lifted his wine glass and took a sip, cool and unconcerned.

Orlinsky felt like he was poking a bomb that had unexpectedly failed to explode, but he continued anyway. "You know the Captain. He thinks ahead. He's made contingency plans for this sort of thing. If you don't get him out, he'll sing like a canary. He's got enough evidence of your personal involvement to get him a commuted sentence."

Irons waved a hand, dismissing the threat. "Please do not insult my intelligence Detective Orlinsky. I am aware of this supposed evidence. I took steps to sanitize myself from his files long ago. Captain Dante may say whatever he wishes to the F.B.I., he will find proving his allegations quite impossible."

"Nice bluff you're running there Mr. Irons, but I get lied to on a daily basis. You start to get a feel for bullshit after a while. You may have gotten to his electronic files, but the Bulls are a little old fashioned. We keep multiple hard copies spread out across the city. Since I only know of two caches that were 'sanitized', I'd say we've still got you." Orlinsky rocked back on his heels, poker face cracking just enough for one lip to curl up in triumph.

"I dislike threats detective. What is to stop me from silencing you now and your beloved captain after?" Irons abandoned his casual pose, straightening to his full, and intimidating, height.

"Not much," Orlinsky paused, knowing he had Mr. Irons attention at last, "If you don't value this cushy little lifestyle you've got going here. Bruno ain't the only one who thinks ahead. Anything happens to me tonight, the information goes public. The Feds will be so busy seizing your assets that the Bulls will slip through the cracks. Oh, they'll have to lie low for a while, but in a few years it'll be business as usual."

"You would still be dead." Nottingham steps forward and purrs in Orlinsky's ear.

Swallowing against the atavistic fear of having that violent madman at his back, Orlinsky manages to keep his voice from cracking on his reply. "I'm willing to make that trade."

Kenneth pauses, eyes narrow and assessing. "I do believe you would detective, but you are correct. I am fond of the position I now enjoy, and so I will let you live."

Behind Orlinsky's back, Ian raised a brow at his master, but moved to his original position by the door. The reprieve was only a temporary one; he could see it in Irons' eyes, just as he could see the anger. Kenneth hated to be controlled, preferring at all times to be the one pulling the strings. The detective was a dead man; it was only a matter of time.

"I thought you might see it our way. Pleasure doing business with you." Orlinsky let his small smirk blossom into a triumphant baring of teeth and prepared to leave, having gotten what he wanted.

Irons raised a hand and Orlinsky paused, "Detective, it would be best if you paid a similar visit to the mayor. He is in a better position than I to open negotiations, and he is certainly in just as deep. I did read those files before I had them purged. He stands to lose much more than I."

"Maybe so, but he doesn't have as much pull as you do." Orlinsky wasn't about to let Mr. Irons off the hook.

"True, but once he begins to question why one of New York's finest is being detained without going through proper channels, I can intervene more cleanly, and without having to sacrifice any of that power that you find so useful." Kenneth explained calmly.

"In that case, I'll be talking to Mayor Fellini next." Orlinsky nodded. He could understand that. Why would a businessman start making inquiries about a police captain?

"Unlike myself, I believe Marcus is still at work. Ever since his personal secretary ran off, he's been making do with less-than-competent substitutes from the departmental pool. He should still be in his office, working on the backlog. I can call him, if you wish." Irons played the cooperative dupe, knowing Orlinsky would never think that the call was for anything but his own convenience. Kenneth just wanted to know where to send Ian after this conversation was finished.

"I'd appreciate that. It'd save me a trip."

Kenneth pulled his titanium satellite phone from his pocket. This was not a call he wanted to make on a traceable line, not when he was about to set up both men in question. It would ruin the symmetry of his plan if his phone records were ever subpoenaed.

"Marcus, how are you?" Irons paused, listening to a reply that the other two men in the room could not hear.

"Still? My good man, you must simply find a replacement for the absent Ms. Vannoy. Surely in a city of this size you can find a competent secretary."

"Hmmm, as bad as that? Well, I will have a word with Donald."

"No, I did not call about your secretarial troubles. I was calling to bow out of our golf game on Wednesday. Something has come up, I am afraid."

Irons chuckled at whatever had been said and replied with a touch of condescension, "Really Marcus, I could spot you a decent handicap and still defeat you quite soundly."

"Well enough. Next Wednesday at 10 a.m. Goodnight Marcus." Kenneth closed the call and looked up at Orlinsky, "He is still in his office, and likely to be for several hours yet."

"Thanks. I can see myself out." Orlinsky turned to go, not wanting to waste any time. The longer Dante was with the Feds with nothing to distract them, the more likely it was that they would learn something that the Bulls and their allies did not want revealed. Besides, having Nottingham behind him was seriously creeping him out.


	27. A Rock, A Hard Place, and a Hospital

A/N: Sorry for the long delay. Somehow I forgot to update to this site. However, here's two chapters to make up for it.

Chapter 27

Kenneth stood with one hand on the mantle, staring into the fire. He was working through the new variables created by the changes in the game. "You were right Ian. I should have let you kill Siri and Dante. It would seem I overestimated the Captains' sense of self-preservation."

"Or McCarty's cleverness," Nottingham felt obligated to point out. Unless he made a conscious effort to do so, he still thought of Jake as a hapless do-gooder who sometimes succeeded in spite of himself. He knew it wasn't true, but the agent's camouflage was terribly pervasive.

"Perhaps we all did." Irons nodded once in concession of the point, "Well, there is no point in examining how it came about, not right now. We have more important things to focus on."

"Damage control." Ian nodded. The longer Siri and Dante were in custody, the more likely it was that one or both would compromise Vorshlag Industries, and by extension, Kenneth Irons.

"Both men will need to be eliminated before they endanger my position further." Irons unconsciously echoed his servant's thoughts.

"It shall be done." Ian lowered his head in obeisance.

"Of course it will. Your skills I have never underestimated, with good reason. But this has progressed far enough that their deaths will not be enough. We must give the F.B.I. a fairly obvious trail to follow, one that leads where we wish it." Kenneth let his eyes drift to half-mast as he contemplated the ways in which to make everything occur in accordance with his desires.

"Fellini." Nottingham spoke the single word with conviction. Now he understood what Irons had been doing earlier with that phone call. He was manoeuvring Orlinsky and Fellini into a precarious position, and then, ever so subtly, he would provide the impetus to send them over the edge and into the arms of the F.B.I.

"Of course Fellini. He's high profile enough to have them salivating over his conviction, and where one public official is engaged in criminal activities, there will be more." Irons smiled, pleased with himself. "They'll never look at the private sector once they begin their witch hunt at City Hall."

"The ensuing media circus will completely obscure any manoeuvrings made on our part." Nottingham could see multiple advantages to such a shake-up. The power vacuum left by removing so many highly placed players would give Irons a great many opportunities to expand.

"Yes, it will. Follow Orlinsky and record his conversation with Marcus. If the detective is fool enough to mention my involvement, have it edited out, then leave a copy for Pezzini. She will make sure her partner gets it, while leaving us conveniently out of the loop." Irons settled in his favourite wing-backed chair, strategically located by the fire.

"What if there is nothing concrete enough to convince the F.B.I. that the mayor had reason to have Dante and Siri killed?" Nottingham inquired.

"Then we will release select portions of the blackmail data that we collected from the White Bulls. There is enough there that will correlate with the information Vannoy sold McCarty." Irons paused to sip his wine.

"But the information from Vannoy implicates some of our ventures. Shall I expand my clean-up to them as well?" Ian hated to ask; he really did not enjoy eliminating company employees whose only crime had been to be too high profile while following dubious orders. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

"That would be for the best, although I believe suspicion will be directed away from me. I know Marcus; he'll start to make calls just as soon as Orlinsky leaves. If you eliminate the two men around four or five this morning, the timetable will look very incriminating when compared to his phone records." Irons patted the vest pocket that held his satellite phone. It definitely paid to be on the cutting edge of technology. With his call bounced through seven satellites, his little chat with the mayor would never be traced.

"Do you believe he could locate the men and have them eliminated that quickly?" Nottingham had not been impressed with the mayor's organizational skills, but if there was a chance that Fellini could get his people in motion that swiftly he needed to know. He would have to handle the hit a little differently if he was going to be forced to dodge not just police, but fellow professionals.

"No, but the F.B.I. will believe, and that is all that matters." Kenneth curled his lips up in a self-satisfied smile.

"Yes sir." Ian bowed his head, thoughts racing madly. Even as angry as Sara had been with Joe that night at the hospital, she would not be pleased to find him dead. Dante he could kill without worrying about upsetting his beloved, but Siri… Letting Siri live would displease Irons, and definitely put him in danger of being exposed.

Nottingham was torn between the desires of the two people he loved best in the world. He left the mansion, his thoughts in a whirl. There had to be some way to salvage the situation, but right now he couldn't see it.

qpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpq

Sara stalked through the doors of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She was geared up for battle, having spent the entire ride fuming over Agent Myers attitude. It was better than dwelling on all the day's revelations or her concern for McCarty. In the back of her mind she knew she was being unfair, but everybody knew shit rolled downhill, and she had been hit with more than enough to pass on.

In the fluorescent light her badge glittered like gold as she flashed it at the brunette nurse manning the front desk. "Where is Detective McCarty?"

"One moment please," The nurse shifted her attention back to the monitor in front of her and typed away at her keyboard. "I'm sorry Officer, but he went from one of the emergency beds into radiology. No room has been assigned to him. Perhaps they are still running tests."

"Or went into surgery?" Sara asked more softly, working to force the words past the sudden tightness in her chest.

"No, or at least, not yet. Something like that would certainly be noted on his file. He may still be in radiology. According to my information they were checking for damage to the left kidney." The nurse looked up, sympathy apparent in her brown eyes. "I'm sure he's going to be just fine."

"Yeah, I'm sure he will." Sara stepped away from the front desk and tried not to think about it. The only thing she could remember about kidney surgery came from that section in the chick flick 'Steel Magnolias' when they talked about Shelby getting a new kidney. They made it sound like the doctors had to damn near saw you in half to get to it.

"Look, you can go down to Radiology if you want. Just follow the signs."

"Thanks." Sara stuffed her hands in her pockets and turned in the direction the nurse had pointed.

Pez found herself relaxing a bit as she walked down the corridors. It took her a minute of walking to notice, and another turn in the rat maze they were pleased to call a building to figure out why.

After spending so much time over the past few weeks in a hospital, the faint beeps of monitors, the squeak of nurses' shoes, and louder squawks of the overhead paging system were almost comforting. It was like the background noises of her apartment building. A sign of normalcy, which was an ugly reminder of just how fucked up her life had become.

"This is all your fault," Sara muttered to the bracelet resting quietly on her wrist.

"Not entirely. You do have free will, you know." A small cluster of interns walked by, and where they had passed stood an Asian man in a white cable-knit sweater and khaki pants.

"Danny?" Sara asked, afraid that she really had cracked this time. After all, the Witchblade still looked like it couldn't do shit.

"A rose by any other name, Sara," Danny replied cryptically, and disappeared behind the next group that passed between them.

"Augh! I hate it when he does that." Sara grumbled, even though seeing her old partner left a warm glow in her heart.

That had been no figment of her imagination, of that, Sara was sure. Only Danny could strew confusion behind him with so few words. Her own brain was not up to creating the convoluted twists of a 'Wise Asian Master' conversation. Ignoring the way the other people in the hall turned to look at her for talking to herself, Sara took another corner and found herself in the waiting area for Radiology.

There was a tall man standing with his back to a section of wall that allowed him a clear view of the area. His hair was short, not quite military, and dark brown, showing some grey at the temples.

This must be Agent Myers. No civilian would be so careful of his placement in a room. Sara walked toward him, and the closer she got, the more his ramrod stance and direct eyes marked him as law enforcement. It would not have mattered where he had chosen to stand, his demeanour would have given him away. Myers was clearly not another undercover agent. He looked more like the old school 'shoot first, then shoot anyone who questioned' kind of Feebie.

"Hello Agent Myers," Sara held out the hand that had not been bandaged for him to shake.

"Detective," Myer's voice was surprisingly rich in person, the cell phone had not conveyed the true depth of his voice.

His hand was cool, his grip firm enough that Sara was glad she had left her injured hand down. "So, how's McCarty doing?"

"His first set of tests were inconclusive, so they're doing another one." The agent shrugged a shoulder, showing what he thought of the hospital staff's incompetence.

"Oh. Well, that's good though, isn't it?" Pez asked. Surely if there was something seriously wrong, they wouldn't have needed to do another test.

"It just means he's not haemorrhaging. That, even these idiots couldn't miss." Myers continued to scan the area, watching for god-knew-what.

Sara used to do that a lot, back when she had been a beat cop. You had to watch your surroundings every second, or there was the very real possibility that something bad would happen to you or your partner. It was a little odd to be on the other side of the roving eye. Now she knew why Maria used to say it drove her crazy. Pez felt like there was something going on behind her. It was hard to fight the urge to turn around and look.

The door opened across from where the two were standing, and an orderly wheeled out McCarty. He was lying on his stomach, chin resting on his hands. Jake grinned up at the two, wondering how they were getting along. Myers could be pretty abrasive when he wanted to be, and so could Sara.

"Are you done lying around? We've got work to do." Myers asked, his eyes holding a little gleam of relief at seeing the younger agent.

"Sorry boss, they want to keep me overnight for observation. You can take Pez though, she's got good instincts." Jake suggested; fighting the urge to giggle at the idea of the two stuck together in a car for hours on a stakeout.

"Those must be some pretty good drugs they gave you, otherwise you'd remember that I would never take a witness into a potential situation." Agent Myers glared down at the convalescent blonde.

"Pffffttt…" Jake blew a raspberry, "You're no fun."

"No, I'm not," the agent deadpanned. "You would be wise to remember that."

"Hey, since when did I become a witness?" Sara objected as she followed the orderlies wheeling McCarty down the hall.

"I know you've seen Orlinsky take a payoff, it's in McCarty's report. So is the little hooker witness you're trying to protect. The one who watched her pimp get whacked. Charlene, I believe her name was?" The agent pointed out.

She hadn't told McCarty about that. Pez glared at the reclining undercover agent. The little prick must have her under surveillance. Sara made a mental note to kick Jake's ass, just as soon as he got better. "So I saw a payoff, big deal. I don't know enough to make that much of a difference in a trial. Charlene is going to be a lot more useful to your investigation than I will be."

"Oh don't worry, just as soon as you tell us where you've stashed her, we'll pick up Charlene too." Myers curled his lips up slightly in a half smile.

"Whaddaya mean, too? I thought we'd just covered that I don't have anything to contribute." Pezzini glowered. Was this asshole not listening to her? "Even if I did, I hardly need to be bundled off to some safe house."

"Since you're not back on active duty, I agree. As long as you're recuperating at home, and not out on the streets tempting fate, we won't take you in." Myers clearly felt he was being generous.

"That's mighty big of you," Sara couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"Yeah, actually, it is." The agent nodded his dark head in agreement. "But the too I was referring to was,"

"Don't say it," Jake pleaded, obviously having some idea what was coming next.

"We picked up Dante tonight." Myers ignored McCarty's objection. If McCarty hadn't told his partner what was going on, he deserved what he got.

"What?" Sara forgot where they were and yelled; garnering several dark looks from the nursing staff.

"I told you not to say anything," Jake mumbled into his pillow.

"Why did you pick him up?" Sara asked suspiciously.

"We had Siri under surveillance, and Dante was about to murder him. We arrested him and placed the Siri's in protective custody. That's when your partner got himself shot." Myers said, directing a look of disgust at McCarty for landing himself in the hospital.

"Oh really? Start talking Jakey-boy, you have some explaining to do." Sara gave her partner a dark look.

Myers dropped back a little and let Pezzini blast McCarty. It was going to be a good show, he could tell.


	28. Late Night Visitors

Nottingham made several discreet phone calls from the first pay phone he passed on his way to the city building. He had precious little time to get everything accomplished, which meant several people would be earning their paychecks tonight.

The F.B.I probably thought they were running a low profile operation, but Nottingham's network had found them two days after he had sent them to look. Finding their safe houses tonight shouldn't be too hard, since his people had a good starting point. With any luck, Ian would get a call divulging the location of the two captains in the next few hours.

Ian had built a network of highly specialized personnel over the years, for just such occasions. These were his people alone; he recruited them and paid them out of his own funds. The web of informants and agents that he had created allowed him to achieve the impossible on a regular basis.

If Irons knew about the team, he had never given any indication, but Nottingham rather thought he hadn't. Kenneth liked to control knowledge, giving it out in dribbles and drabs when he must, hoarding facts until he could use them for the best possible effect. The idea that there was a source of information that he did not edit first would have driven Irons crazy.

While Nottingham hated to do anything that would displease the older man, he needed unaltered data. If there was one thing he had learned during his time with the military, it was never go into a situation without reliable intelligence. Partial reports always ended up costing extra mission time, injuries, lost objectives, or all three and worse.

In the meantime, he would see just how much rope Orlinsky would use to hang himself, and the mayor. Ian settled in to his habitual rooftop perch and put in an ear bud so he could listen.

qpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqp

It had been four hours since Sara had left Jake in the hospital. She'd been in the middle of blistering his ears when he started snoring. Seeing that she was wasting her breath, Pezzini decided to wait until the drugs had worked out of her partner's system so he would get the full effect of her lecture. She'd said a curt goodnight to Agent Myers, whose blank face did not quite mask the twinkle of mirth in his eyes. He'd found the whole situation terribly amusing, she could tell.

Sara sighed and ran a finger over the dull metal of the Witchblade. It wasn't Myer's attitude or McCarty's somnolence keeping her from sleeping, although it made for a nice distraction, it was fear that she wouldn't wake up again.

This was the first time since Ceto had possessed her that she was home alone at night. Gabriel had taken watch the last time she had slept, even though she had returned the Witchblade to her wrist. True, nothing had happened, but Sara couldn't shake the fear that being alone meant that the bitch would ambush her in her sleep.

"Fear is the mind killer, my young Padawan." Danny's voice broke into her musings.

"Are you allowed to mix your movie quotes? Isn't that against the Cryptic Ghost Code?" Sara grumbled and pulled the pillow over her face.

"Nah. As long as I never give you a straight answer to the important questions, it's all good." Amusement laced his response.

"Do you have any idea how much that rule sucks?" Pez flung the pillow she'd been holding over her head in the direction of her partner's voice.

"You should try it from this side. I see you heading for disaster after disaster, and the only thing I can do is give you hints. It's like watching a toddler at the top of a flight of stairs."

"Are you calling me a baby?" Sara's ignored the 'disaster after disaster' part. She didn't want to know how many near-misses she'd had.

"If the booties fit…" Danny was quick to reply.

Sara sat up, looking around the loft for the source of her irritation. Seeing nothing, Pez narrowed her eyes and growled, "Daniel Woo, come out here this instant."

"Ooohh, aren't we grumpy this morning?" A Danny-shaped shadow separated from the pool of darkness in the corner nearest the window. "I'd ask if you got up on the wrong side of the bed, but I can see the answer for myself."

"I've got a lot on my mind." Pezzini grumbled at the indistinct shape.

"So what's keeping you up, the bitch, the bracelet, or the boyfriend?" Danny stepped into the moonlight.

"He's not my boyfriend," Sara protested.

"Bullshit." Danny cut the objection off.

"We've gone out a few times, that's all. It doesn't give me any claims." Sara sighed.

"Denial, clearly not just a river in Egypt," Danny rolled his eyes. "Come on Pez. Nottingham worships the ground you walk on."

"He does not." Even as she said it, Sara felt a thrill. Did Ian really?

"Oh yes he does. Hell, he even cooked for you. Trust me; if a guy cooks for you, he's serious." Danny shook his head, wondering why such an intelligent detective couldn't see the clues right in front of her.

"Serious enough to quit working for Irons? Because that's the biggest hold-up to this relationship," Sara paused and sucked in a deep breath. "I know this will scare you, but I've actually been thinking about the future."

Danny quirked his lips up in that almost-smile of his, "That's scary all right. Who are you, and what did you do with the real Pez?"

"She skipped town, said something about going to the bike rally in Sturgis." Sara tried to keep a straight face and failed.

The two shared a conspiratorial grin before Danny sobered and asked, "So what really made you start looking before you leap?"

"Funny what too much free time and nothing but Jerry Springer on the TV will do for you." Sara drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. "I thought about what you'd said to me about living. I thought about it a lot."

"What did you decide?" Danny went still, the answer was very important.

"That I want to live instead of just exist. I want Ian to be a part of that life, but no matter how I played the scenarios out in my head, I kept stonewalling on Irons. He will never be able to accept me having a relationship with anyone, much less someone he considers a cross between a rottweiler and a servant." Pez curled in tighter around her legs, chin resting on her knees.

"Don't forget son. Irons did raise him." Danny felt obligated to point out.

"Fuck." Sara shifted slightly so she could beat her forehead against her knees. "That's" thump "Just" thump "Fucking" thump "Perfect."

His hands hovered over her shoulder, wanting to give more than verbal support, "Calm down Pez. Dutiful sons always rebel when in love. It's a tradition."

Sara looked up, eyes promising dire suffering if only she could get her hands on him. "If that was your idea of encouraging, you can shut up."

"I'm hurt, truly. Here I am, just trying to help, and I get dumped on." Danny feigned wounded innocence.

Pez wasn't buying it. "If you were really here to help you would tell me about Ceto instead of giving me shit about my love life."

"But talking about her isn't as much fun." Danny stuck his lower lip out in a pout.

"Tough. I'm worried about her coming after me again."

"You should be. Ceto wants that bracelet, and as weak as you both still are, now is the best chance she'll ever have of getting it." Danny paused to let his warning sink in. "The good news is, now that you're wearing the Witchblade again, you're not open to possession."

"So what's the bad news?" Sara knew there would be some. That was just the way her luck ran.

Danny sat on the edge of the bed, regretting once again that he could not touch Sara to offer her comfort. "She knows your physical location. It makes it easier for her to use avatars or other material intermediaries to get to you."

"So Ceto can't invade my mind, but she can hire a bunch of thugs break into my apartment?"

"Exactly," Danny nodded, glad she'd gotten it. "Although Ceto is more likely to offer a reward of power than money, and it will probably be some crackpot fringe group. I'd start making nice with Bunko if I were you."

"Yeah, I can see what you mean. They'd be the first to know if something was stirring up the weirdos." Sara had planned to talk to them anyway, since she was going to have to make some show of digging around the closed Brian Reilly case to keep McCarty from realizing she'd been trying to distract him from Joe.

"Now that you know that, think you can sleep?" Danny asked.

"Hell, I don't know. Maybe," Sara sighed.

"Would you like me to tell you a story?" Danny grinned suddenly.

Sara arched a brow, "I don't think I'm as bad off as that, thank you."

"Oh come on Pez, I tell great stories. Now which one should I tell?" Danny trailed off as if deep in thought, and then smirked, "Once upon a time there was a grouchy princess, who was cranky because she didn't get enough sleep. All her subjects walked in fear of the princess' bad temper."

"Cute Danny, really cute," Sara cut him off before he could go any further. Then, to her surprise, she gave a huge yawn.

"What did I tell you?" Danny's smirk blossomed into a smile that would have done the Cheshire Cat proud, and like the legendary cat, it was the last thing of him she saw. Danny faded into the night, his smile nothing but the gleam of the streetlamp through her window. His voice was soft in her ear, "Works every time."

Surrendering to the inevitable, Sara settled back onto the mattress and closed her eyes.


	29. A Beautiful Hit

DDD

Chapter 32

Ian had finally gotten the call with the location of the safe houses. He now had three hours to make two hits. It was nowhere near as much time as he would have liked to get in position and take the men out. Fortunately, he didn't have to dodge the mayor's hired muscle. Given what he had overheard after Orlinsky left, Fellini couldn't possibly get his people into position before tomorrow. At least the man had made the arrangements. All that phone activity would keep the F.B.I. from looking any further for the culprit.

It would also get him off the hook with Sara. If she didn't know what he'd been ordered to do, she couldn't be mad at him. He did not want to lie to her, even if only by omission, but Joe Siri was a link in a chain that led to Irons.

After a great deal of soul searching, Ian had decided that his first obligation, in this instance, was to Kenneth. Not only was it his job to protect Irons, it was his duty to protect the man who had raised him like a son.

There had been other times when he had decided in Sara's favor, and there would doubtless be again. It was a hard thing, this balancing act he was forced to maintain between the two of them, but it was the only option available to him. As it was, one misstep would plunge everything into the abyss.

Nottingham shoved such thoughts away from him as he parked his car. He could not afford any distractions while working. He was a quarter mile back from the first safe house, just outside the FBI's perimeter. Ian grabbed the bright red gym bag that held the sniper rifle. He stepped out of the black Pathfinder, just another New Yorker coming back from work via the gym.

The apartment building had an older key lock on the main entrance. It was contemptuously easy to open, he had hardly even needed to use two picks, the tumblers falling into place with an ease that spoke of a nearly worn out mechanism. Ian took the stairs to the roof. Once there, he shoved a wedge in the doorframe to insure his privacy and began to assemble the sniper rifle.

According to the report given to him, his target was the green two-story house that edged the commercial/residential demarcation line. He had an excellent view of it over the south side of the roof, which was really why intelligence had suggested it. The multitude of people passing through the building to muddy the waters afterward was just a bonus.

Ian laid the completed rifle down and reached back into the bag. He pulled out the small laptop computer and turned it on. In moments he had a thermal image of the safe house, beamed direct to him from one of Vorshlag's orbital satellites, on his monitor. Dante was still in his bed, which made the shot both easier and harder. Easier in that a sleeping man did not move, making motion correction unnecessary. But at this distance a supine target was difficult, especially since he would be shooting through a wall and was unable to actually 'see' his target. He would have to rely on his ability to translate what he saw on the screen to a firing angle.

Most assassins wouldn't take this shot, the odds were too high that the target would be missed, which would raise the alarm and make a second attempt doubly difficult. Nottingham wasn't happy about it himself, but he couldn't wait for a better shot to present itself. His timetable was too damn tight.

Nottingham picked the rifle back up, the black weapon a comforting weight in his palms. He settled his upper body on the edge of the building for support, checked his angle against the monitor, and aimed. Ian drew in a deep breath and held it. He visualized the room inside his head, and Dante sleeping in the bed. The image didn't quite line up. He dropped his aim a millimetre and felt that little hum in the back of his brain that told him he was on the mark.

On the exhale he slowly pulled the trigger, at this distance the slightest shift in the barrel would make him miss the target. The soft whine of the weapon firing was almost lost in the ambient noise of the city, yet Ian froze, alert for any sign that he had been noticed. He had used a muzzle flash suppressor as well as a silencer, just in case they had posted a spotter, but he was still wary.

It was his policy to never underestimate his foes, and that had stood him in good stead. Nottingham knew very well he was still alive because he was both good and cautious. Being skilled alone would not save you from the opportunities that carelessness gave one's opponents.

He checked the monitor, watching as the supine figure of Dante began to darken as his body heat dissipated into the night air. The agents guarding the ex-Captain didn't move from their positions, Nottingham was pleased to note. The longer it took them to realize their prisoner was dead, the better.

Ian dismantled the sniper rifle by feel, eyes moving back and forth from the monitor to the area around him. Once it was ready to stow, Nottingham closed the laptop and placed everything but the barrel back in the bag. It was the barrel that would seal his fate, were he caught. Ballistics was very precise. He walked over to one of the roof vents and dropped it down the hole.

Evidence disposed of; Ian looked over the edge of the building. It would be so much faster just to jump, but the laptop would never withstand that kind of shock. He turned away from the quick route and pulled the wedge out of the doorframe so he could go back the way he came.

One down, one to go.

The location of the second target was not conveniently located to the first. Ian had spent the last twenty minutes of the drive tempting fate in the form of being pulled over for speeding. It broke the first rule of an assassin; thou shalt not draw attention to thyself. He hated to break it but, this night, time was of the essence. It was worth playing the odds, especially through the poorer sections of town where no cop in his right mind wanted to get out of his car alone.

It was looking like his risk was going to pay off. In just a few more minutes he would be to the parking garage that he intended to use to take out the second mark. There would be enough time to park, pick up the barrel, and take his shot before the guard changed. The incoming crew would check on Dante and find him a corpse. The jig, as they say, would be up. He needed to make his shot before they alerted the other safe house and moved Siri.

As Nottingham turned the corner, his luck ran out. There were two squad cars bracketing a wreck directly in front of the garage entrance. The rotating lights cast alternating red and blue light over the t-barred vehicles. Someone must have pulled out right into an oncoming car.

At this time of night, both had probably consumed alcohol or any number of pharmaceuticals, or both. The scene was not likely to be cleared for a while, and both cars would probably end up impounded, which meant waiting for one of the city wreckers to show up and haul them out of the way.

Unfortunately, his contacts had already been and gone. His replacement barrel was on the top floor of the parking garage and there was no quick way to get another one sent out. Ian was going to have to go through or around the police to get to that vital piece of equipment.

By the blood of Saint Joan, he hated rush jobs. There was no time for this. Ian drove past the accident and turned at the next corner. On both sides of the street the curbs were painted 'no parking' yellow. Parking Control didn't work this late, but with the accident around the corner Nottingham could not count on his vehicle passing unremarked. Being noticed was far more dangerous than a parking ticket.

Four blocks later Ian found an open space and parked the black car. He slid out of the Pathfinder and hesitated. Going back for the barrel was going to cost him time, and that was something he did not have. While he preferred long-range on a hit like this, it wasn't necessary. Two of the pistols on his person were throw-aways. The serial numbers had been filed off, and there was no way to trace them back to himself or Vorshlag if he used the pistols and dumped them.

The likelihood of being seen, or even caught, increased exponentially the closer to his target he became. Was it worth the risk? Did he have any choice? The clock was ticking.

Deciding that a close-in hit would be his best chance, Nottingham returned the gym bag to the vehicle. He would not need the partial weapon, and he could make better time without it and the relatively fragile laptop.

Ian moved into the darkness beyond the streetlamps and began to run. When he had enough momentum going, he leapt for the fire escape. His best bet was a high approach. It would give him a better angle for his shot, as well as being the path of least resistance.

Conscious of the steady passing of time, Nottingham raced to the safe house. Four blocks away from his target, activity suddenly increased. The area was crawling with agents, who were spread out in a search pattern.

Had Fellini somehow managed to get a man into position? It seemed unlikely, but depending on who he hired, the assassin could have had an inside track on the hit. Ian could not count on that though. He was going to have to see for himself just what had occurred.

For several tense minutes Ian threaded his way through the security net, sometimes passing close enough to an agent to touch them. It was exhilarating to be so near trained operatives without being detected. Nottingham smiled to himself. He had missed the thrill of being in the field against such odds. Now that he was head of security, with all the high visibility that entailed, Ian was expected to be more circumspect in his actions.

If Irons knew that mere inches stood between Nottingham and discovery, he would be very displeased. Well, Kenneth wouldn't be learning of it tonight. Ian made it past the sweep and settled into the shadow cast by the gargoyle on the roof of the building next to the safe house.

Wanting to know what was going on before he got any closer; Ian slid the listening device out of one of the trench coat's inner pockets. He aimed it at the house and placed the receiver in his ear.

"So far nothing," the first voice Ian heard was a disappointed baritone.

"Well, they're not exactly subtle." The second voice was midrange, no accent, utterly forgettable, even with the sarcasm lacing his tone. "All those agents prowling around probably scared our hitter off. I am surprised that they didn't do 'em both at the same time. They had to know we'd be checking on our 'guests' pretty regular, especially the involuntary one."

Well, yes, actually Nottingham had thought of that. He knew he should have taken Siri out first. Since he was being protected and not under arrest, Joe would not have had any desire to flee, and so would have been watched less closely. Ian had taken Dante out first because he was reluctant to cause Sara any pain. Part of him had been hoping to come up with a solution that would not put him into conflict with her expectations and Kenneth's orders.

Proof once again that sentiment had no place in the work environment.

"Yeah well, maybe the other one was personal, and nobody's coming for this guy. After all, you don't get to the top without shoving somebody out of the slot," the first man was saying.

"True enough. You also don't get there without learning things that other people don't want to get out." Something in the second man's tone put Ian on alert. He pressed the record button on the listening device.

"Yeah. The rumour mill says it's some kind of secret society, and that it goes way up the food chain."

"It does." The soft 'pfft' of a silenced round made Nottingham jerk.

There was the muffled thump of a body hitting carpet, and then the man was talking again, his voice holding a touch of regret, "Sorry Nate. You should have gone out with the others."

Ian resisted the urge to lean forward. It wouldn't make any difference to the receiver. It would, however, break his silhouette from the shelter of the building, making him visible to anyone keeping a watch. It was hard to stay in place though. Nottingham wanted to see the shooter, needed to put a face to the voice of Sara's enemy. This man could be nothing else. Only someone connected to the Bulls would be doing this.

There was the sound of a door opening, and then Joe Siri's voice asking, "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. Everything is just fine, Mr. Siri." There were two more shots fired, and then silence.

A few moments later the shades were drawn back and the curtains of the window opposite Ian were opened. Even with his excellent night vision, all Ian could see was a white handkerchief moving over what had to be the gun. Finally satisfied that the weapon had been sanitized, the corrupt agent moved to the counterpane and raised the sash.

Nottingham bared his teeth in a predatory grin as his target came into sight. The man was medium height, probably 5' 10". His hair was a sandy blonde and his face was utterly forgettable. No doubt he was invaluable when it came to tailing suspects. That nondescript look would no longer avail him. Ian had memorized his features as the agent tossed the pistol out into the neighbour's hedges.

The blonde stepped back from the window, leaving it open, and walked out of sight. There was the sound of crashing furniture, and then three shots shattered the relative quiet of the night. Ian settled deeper into his hiding place, knowing the sound would bring all the agents running back to the safe house.


	30. A Knock at the Door

DDD

A Knock at the Door

There was someone knocking on the door. Sara opened her eyes and glanced over at the alarm clock and yelled, "Fuck off! It's not even six in the fucking morning!"

The knocking continued, uncaring of her objection. It was the hard insistent boom of a law enforcement officer, the kind that said if you didn't open the damn door, they were going to break it down. Had the White Bulls decided they had nothing to lose, now that Dante and Siri had been picked up? Losing their leader might make them that desperate.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming! Keep your shirt on!" Sara yelled at the door as she pulled on a pair of sweat pants, not bothering to tuck in the grey NYPD tee shirt she had been sleeping in, and shoved her feet into sneakers. Gun naked in her hand, Sara walked to the door, careful to keep close to the wall in case they decided to start shooting through the wood.

"Not a morning person, detective?" The man on the other side of the door called back. His voice was vaguely familiar.

Sara stopped with her pistol raised up to line the sites on the door, brain trying to come up with a name or a face to go with the voice. After a long silence, she remembered. He was the Feebie from the hospital. Feeling a little sheepish, Pez clicked the safety back on her .9mm and opened the door.

"Good morning, Agent Myers." Sara tried to smile, but it felt stiff and fake. She wanted to slam the door in his face and go back to bed. She just wasn't up to nice yet. Maybe after a pot or two of coffee, she'd be more social. Yeah right.

"Good morning to you as well, Detective Pezzini."

"So what brings you here?" Sara paused as a horrible idea came to her. "Is Jake ok?"

"McCarty is doing well enough, all things considered." Myers shrugged and walked into the apartment, his eyes moving over everything.

"That's good," Sara let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding.

"Now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, start packing. We are relocating you to a safe house." Myers turned his brown eyes back to her face just in time to watch the detective's chin lift in defiance of the idea.

"We just had this conversation last night, didn't we? I'm not that big of a fish, and I'm on medical leave for the next two weeks." Pezzini turned her back on the agent and headed into the kitchen. Clearly, she needed coffee.

"That was last night. The situation has escalated since then." Myers had followed the detective, but wasn't looking at her. His focus was the windows that ran the length of her studio apartment.

"What the Hell are you talking about?" Sara snapped off the question as she jerked the red metal container out of the cabinet, slamming the cupboard for emphasis.

"Due to a series of unfortunate events, you are now our star witness."

"Oh great. How did that happen? Oh wait, let me guess, Joe decided to chicken out again?" The question was bitter, but not any more so than the agent's reply.

"No, and you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, detective." Myers looked down at her, disapproval of her insensitivity clear in his tone.

"Speak ill of the dead? You're talking metaphorically right? I mean, you guys put Joe in a safe house and just told everyone he's dead for his protection, didn't you?" Pezzini stared at Myers, her tone begging him to tell her that was what he meant, but her eyes were already darkening with grief.

"I'm afraid not." Myers paused, his shoulders tightening like he was bracing himself, "Around four fifteen this morning, Joe and Marie Siri were assassinated."

"No," Sara whispered. The coffee can fell from her nerveless fingers and bounced, the dark brown powder spraying the area liberally. Pez ignored the gritty mess, too intent on fighting back the tears to care about the state of her kitchen.

"The hit was very professional, one shot to the center of the forehead. They didn't suffer." Myers offered what consolation he could.

Sara didn't reply. She couldn't. The words 'professional' and 'assassinated' echoed in her mind. Who did she know who was a professional assassin with an employer who might find himself exposed by Joe's testimony? Kenneth Irons, that's who. Well, ok, and the White Bulls. If he didn't testify against Dante, his case wasn't so airtight. Pez licked her lips and rasped out, "What about Dante?"

"Dante was taken down first, we know that much. They're still working out the firing angle. The preliminary findings seem almost impossible, so they're checking them again. He was shot through the wall, from what Ballistics is saying, and they think the shooter was on the roof of an apartment complex a quarter mile away."

"Please God, no. Don't let it be," Even as she whispered it, Sara knew who made that shot. A spike of heat on her wrist, and she was on a windy rooftop, watching Ian pull the trigger. It felt like she was choking on the pain of Nottingham's betrayal. How could he? Sara grabbed for the metal of the bracelet, wanting to pull the Witchblade from her wrist and throw it across the room. It wouldn't budge, but the vision faded, dumping her back in her apartment with a suspicious Feebie.

"Don't let it be what?" Myers had stopped watching the windows to stare at her. From his tone, Sara thought it might not be the first time he'd asked her.

"I…" Sara paused, not quite willing to voice her suspicions. "It's just, listening to you talk about Dante, it made it all start to sink in. I don't want to believe it, but I have to."

"I hate to sound insensitive but, bullshit." Myers crossed his arms.

"Excuse me?" Sara growled, all to ready to transfer her pain and sorrow to anger. Anger was much more comfortable; it warmed and insulated her from the grief trying to pull her down.

"You hated Dante's guts. I doubt you're getting all depressed over him biting it."

"Not him, Joe and Marie." Pez snapped, going on the offensive. "Weren't they all supposed to be in protective custody?"

"Yes," Myers shot back, voice hot with frustration.

"Not to be too critical here or anything, but what the Hell kind of security do you idiots have?"

"There were two agents in each house, four roving teams, and perimeter watch points." Myers was clearly baffled and upset at the failure of the safety measures.

"Yeah, what were they doing while the shooting was going on, sitting on their thumbs?" Pezzini stepped into his personal space, all the anger and betrayal seething inside her pushing for a physical outlet.

"We lost one of our agents in the Siri hit, and another one was wounded." His face became stiff, eyes blank. The Feebie was reacting like a cop to a nosy outsider at a funeral.

Sara closed her eyes. She regretted speaking so harshly. Pez knew all too well how Myers must be feeling right now. "I'm sorry to hear that."

For long minutes neither spoke. The uncomfortable silence was finally broken by Myers clearing his throat. "Yes, well, start packing Pezzini."

"Thanks for your offer of protection, but no thanks." Sara tried to be diplomatic about her refusal. "I don't think I'm important enough to rate the round the clock babysitting."

"We picked Siri and Dante up after Siri's little chat with you. Since whoever took them out clearly has inside information, it naturally follows that you have to be a target as well." The agent seemed very certain that she was in danger.

"How am I dangerous to the Bulls? I've been catching heat from Dante because he hates my guts, but he's been shooting for my being booted, not boxed." Sara pantomimed being in a coffin, just in case Myers didn't get the reference. "Now that he's dead, there's no reason to continue the vendetta. It's not like I know anything."

"You've been assigned to the eleventh precinct for your entire career. You've worked side by side with these scumbags. Hell, I think you're about the only one in your department who isn't on the take. There are things you don't realize you know that will help put them away." Myers wasn't buying her attempt to dodge.

She didn't know a damn thing. That much was clear. Until yesterday Sara had believed her father had been avenged by taking down Gallo, but he was just the triggerman. Until yesterday, she'd naively thought she and Nottingham had a future, but he had just killed four people and wounded another.

It was going to be damn hard to do anything about what she'd just learned with a bunch of Feebies breathing down her neck. Sara really didn't want anyone else around when she confronted Nottingham. "I can take care of myself just fine, thanks."

"I'm sure you can Pezzini, that's why you've spent the last two weeks in the hospital right?" Myers shook his head, clearly not impressed.

"That was different." Sara growled, seeing already where this was going.

"Sure it was. Carmelita Boucher wasn't a professional." The agent took a step forward, invading Sara's personal space to make his point.

"Just crazy," Pez rolled her eyes, not intimidated by his tactic.

"I read the report Pezzini. The only reason you're alive is because of an anonymous call made to the emergency dispatcher. Not only can you not count on a Good Samaritan twice, but a lot of your coworkers are White Bulls. Do you really think they'll have your back out there?" Brown eyes bored mercilessly into green, trying to make Pezzini understand just how much trouble she was in.

"Look, my partner is clean. That's all the backup I need." Sara gritted back, hands curling into fists at her sides.

"Your backup is lying in a hospital bed, his cover quite probably blown all to Hell. You don't have squat." Myers didn't back off an inch.

"I'm a big girl, Agent Myers. I don't have to have somebody holding my hand out there." Sara all but growled.

"Yes you do. Stop being an idiot. We both know how dangerous law enforcement is in a city like this. There will be a drive-by, a drug deal gone wrong, a crazy with a knife or a gun, some crackhead too hopped up to register that he's been shot four or five times, something. If your 'brother' officers decide to take the long way when responding to your call for backup, which they will, sooner or later you're dead." Myers pointed out grimly, something in his tone spoke of personal experience.

"So, who hung you out to dry?" Sara asked, hoping to redirect the focus of the conversation. She didn't want to go into protective custody; she wanted to be out there busting the people responsible for her father's death.

"That doesn't matter. What matters is I survived," Myers said shortly. Either he didn't want to talk about it, or he knew what she was doing and wasn't falling for it.

"What makes you think I won't make it too?" Sara was insulted by his lack of faith. She hadn't gotten to detective without taking her lumps. She wasn't some weakling.

"I know what you're thinking. You've been working these streets for years and lived to tell the tale. Unfortunately, it isn't just the fucknuts and yahoos that you'll have to watch out for. The White Bulls are probably thinking the same thing you are, and they can't afford to let you live. If I were those bastards, I'd have you sniped from some rooftop or cap you in a raid. You'd never see it coming, but you'd go down, just like your dad." Myers said the last part with sympathy.

"That's the second time you've brought him up. What do you know about my father?" Sara fought back the lump in her throat that talking about her dad always seemed to bring.

"We saw that tape long before you did, Detective. It's pretty obvious James Pezzini was killed for getting to close to the truth. I'd hate to see you go the same way." The agent stepped back, giving her room to deal with her pain.

"You've made your point. Look, I need a shower, some caffeine, and to pack. Why don't you go down to the little bakery on the corner and get us some breakfast while I get started here." Sara slumped, her body language conveying defeat and acquiescence.

Myers eyed her drooping form and realized how many shocks she'd had, one after another, these past few days. Pezzini probably didn't want him to see her have the break down she was overdue for. Well, he could give her a little privacy. She wouldn't get much of that at the safe house. "Got any preferences on your coffee and Danish?"

"Black, three sugars, and a couple of the hazelnut praline rolls," Sara replied, shuffling toward the bathroom.

She ran the water, brushing her teeth and listening for the door to close. Once Myers left, Sara rinsed her mouth out and turned off the water. She rushed into the bedroom and changed into her black bike leathers. The jacket was bulky enough not to show the shoulder rig and the boots had a clip-in holster for her back-up weapon. Sara headed for the elevator, intending to ride it down to the second floor and take the back stairs from there. She should be able to bypass Myers and go straight for Irons and Nottingham. They both had to pay.

o

A/N: To those who are still with me, thanks for the reviews. Love and chocolate to all.


	31. Bloodlust

Bloodlust

The door to Kenneth Irons private study burst open. Sara stood there for a moment, green eyes blazing with fury. Behind her, the servant who had answered the door, continued to bleat the same protests over and over. She continued to ignore the girl and took in the scene before her. Irons was sitting in his throne, Nottingham kneeling at his feet like the dog he was.

"Good morning detective. To what do we owe the honor of your company?" Irons smiled at the brunette, projecting his pleasure at seeing her up and about, and waved a dismissal to the hovering servant.

For a long moment Sara just stared at him, wondering how he dared to sit there and act like he had done nothing wrong. When she finally spoke there was a raspy edge to her voice, throat tight with grief and pain. "Oh, I think you know."

"I am not in the habit of asking questions to which I already know the answer." Kenneth said condescendingly.

"Joe and Marie were killed last night." Sara watched with narrowed eyes, waiting to see how Irons would respond to the unspoken accusation that she was here because he was responsible for their deaths.

"The Siris are deceased? I offer my sincerest condolences." Kenneth's voice fairly dripped with false sympathy. "You must be overwrought. Please, have a seat. I find brandy best for this kind of shock. Ian, if you would be so good as to fetch the detective a snifter?"

"Move and I'll drop you Nottingham." Pezzini snapped a countermand to Irons' order.

Ian had started to rise and hesitated. Even though Sara was behind him, he could tell she was serious, he recognised that tone. He settled back into his previous position, knowing that it wasn't just the deaths, but that she felt he had betrayed her.

"Sara, really," Kenneth soothed, "There's no cause for you to take such a tone. Ian was just being helpful."

"If Nottingham really wanted to be helpful, he'd cuff himself." Sara hooked her thumb through the first of two pair she had tucked in her waistband and tossed the steel handcuffs to land by the kneeling man's booted heels.

"Why would Ian do that?" Irons cocked his head slightly to take in Nottingham's unmoving form and still keep Detective Pezzini in his sight.

"Because he is under arrest for the murder of Joseph Siri, his wife Marie, and Bruno Dante, that's why." Pez ground out.

"Come now Sara, the captain of your department, the retired captain of your department and his wife are dead and you think that Nottingham killed them? What possible gain could there be for him in such an act?" Kenneth objected in that urbane tone that never failed to irritate Pezzini, even on a good day, which this definitely was not.

"For him? None, I would imagine. But Ian is a good and faithful servant, isn't he?" Sara threw Irons old description of Nottingham back in the blonde's face. "I'm sure he was just doing what you told him to do."

"I?" Kenneth was the very picture of wounded innocence.

"Spare me the act. We both know that you gave the order and Nottingham carried it out." Pez growled.

"Is that what you truly think of me? I am hurt. I thought we had come farther in our relationship than this." Irons sighed regretfully.

"Oh we have. We've come so far that I know just what happened, and you both are going to rot in jail for the rest of your unnatural lives." Sara smiled at the thought, a cold, hateful smile.

Kenneth met her smile with a thoughtful frown. "You seem so convinced. Pray indulge me, and tell me how you came to the realization that I was responsible. What evidence do you have that has brought you to my door?"

"I…" Sara trailed off. She had seen a vision. There was no evidence, at least not yet. Certainly nothing that would hold up in court. If she brought them in now, they would walk, and ol' Kenny would probably file a wrongful detainment suit.

"Yes?" Kenneth arched a brow. "Could it be that you have no proof? Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty, detective? I believe I shall lodge a complaint with your superiors over this harassment."

Pez stared at Irons, still reclined in his leather chair as if he had done nothing wrong and had nothing to worry about. He even had the gall to smile, no smirk; it was definitely a smirk, at her. So Irons thought he'd had gotten away with it, did he? Sara pushed her jacket aside, hand settling on the grips of her pistol.

"What are you going to do, shoot me?" Kenneth held his arms out, emphasising his supposed helplessness.

"The thought had crossed my mind." Sara threatened.

"Captain Dante always said you were a vigilante. I had not believed him, until now." Irons ignored the continued threat of her hand on her gun.

"Dante didn't know shit about me."

"Of course not, he was only your captain. He didn't read your file, interact daily with you, or even work in the same precinct." Kenneth mocked.

"Shut up." Sara snarled. The Witchblade responded to the spike of fury by warming on her wrist. "I've had enough of you manipulating me, of you taking away the people that matter. You know, I used to think it was me, that I was cursed somehow. But it wasn't, was it? You were always there, pulling the strings."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

Pez snorted in derision. "You encouraged Dante to have my father killed so that I would be alone. Then, when I found support in my partner, you set up the phoney sale at the Rialto so that he would die right in front of me. You made sure I had an obvious target in Gallo, because it made me blind to the fact that you were the common thread through all the shit that was happening to me."

"I will excuse these wild flights of fantasy, but only because you have had a terrible upset. You are distraught, delusional." Irons barely managed to keep the shock he was feeling out of his voice.

Sara wasn't supposed to figure him out; she was supposed to come to him as a supplicant. To ask for his help in achieving her vengeance against those she had been led to believe had wronged her. How had she learned…? Kenneth's eye was caught by a faint red glow on Pezzini's wrist. The Gauntlet had found its way back to her.

This could work out very badly for him, as he no longer had his own connection to the Witchblade. Now that he was not the Gauntlet's temporal keeper, it had no reason to protect Kenneth. If the sentient weapon could use Irons' past actions as a goad to drive the Wielder into bloodlust, it would.

"No more. You've taken away everything that was ever important to me, my family, my friends," Sara paused, eyes tellingly darting to where Nottingham continued to kneel, "my love. I should have done this a long time ago, you meddling son-of-a-bitch."

Metal rasped against leather as the Glock cleared the holster. With near-supernatural speed, Sara lined the sights of her gun on the center of Kenneth's forehead, just above his eyes. The Witchblade was now glowing brightly enough to lay a red hue over the weapon and give her eyes a matching cast.

The click of the Glock's safety being thumbed off was all the warning Kenneth Irons had that Detective Pezzini had gone over the edge. The Witchblade had driven its Wielder into bloodlust. There would be no appeal to reason that she would hear, no end save death. Time seemed to slow, showing him the depression of her finger on the trigger, the glow of chemical ignition deep inside the barrel, letting him see death coming for him at last.

Nottingham eased his hand back, feeling for the handcuffs Sara had tossed at his feet. Sara was taking a deep steadying breath. He looked over his shoulder, watching her while his hand slid across the nap of the Persian rug. He could see that she serious. Sara was going to shoot Kenneth, and that he could not allow.

It was his duty to protect the older man. Besides, she would regret it later, when her thinking was not clouded by the Witchblade. His lady was a lot of things, but to kill someone unarmed and offering no direct violence to her person would haunt her, however much she had thought it necessary at the time.

His fingers brushed over metal just as Sara began the exhale that would accompany the squeezing of the trigger. Handcuffs in his grasp, Nottingham pushed up from his position on the floor, hand arcing behind. The cuffs smacked against the barrel, ruining her aim. The bullet whined past Kenneth's ear to bury itself in the mahogany bookcase to his left.

The restraints had done what Ian intended, so he let them go. He needed both hands free, one to keep the weapon pointing away from anyone, and the other to take it apart. The barrel on the service .9mm was designed for easy cleaning, and if you knew what you were doing, you could take it right off the base of the weapon in a fight, leaving your opponent holding nothing but the grips.

Nottingham knew what he was doing. The barrel came free in his hand, and he tossed it behind him. Sara glared at him over their hands, together over the remnants of her Glock in a parody of intimacy. "Sara, please, listen to me. It's not what you think."

"I don't want to hear any excuses from you. I trusted you. I thought we had something special." Sara let go of the useless hilts as the Witchblade flowed down her wrist, encasing her hand in silver metal. She punched him in his lying mouth, sending Nottingham across the room. "More fool me, huh?"

"No, you were right to trust me. I need you to trust me again," Ian pleaded, ignoring the pain of his lacerated lip. "Please, Sara."

Sara stared down into pleading brown eyes and wavered. She wanted to believe him, he sounded so sincere, and the way he was gazing at her… but she knew better. Fury gripped her anew. He was a liar, and worse. Nottingham had probably been lying to her all along, pretending to love her. Asshole.

Pezzini stalked toward him, the Witchblade responding to her thoughts with the rasp of metal on metal. The blade that shot out of the gauntlet flashed as she drew her arm back, ready to skewer Nottingham where he waited, crouched where he had landed.

Ian watched her come, seeing the telltale red gleam in the Wielder's eyes. He dodged away from the blow, moving back toward the center of the room. The Witchblade had her firmly in its control. The Gauntlet, by virtue of its nature, did not acknowledge anything but good or evil. Without the Wielder maintaining balance, the Witchblade brought justice without mercy, vengeance untempered by reason.

If even one of them had been at full strength, Nottingham would have despaired. Yet thankfully, both Wielder and weapon were recovering from near-destruction. There was a good chance he could wait out the tempest. Ian danced away from Sara as she thrust again. He moved around the room, using every trick he knew to wear her out.

The long weeks of complete bedrest soon began to show. Sara was sweating and stumbling, her breath coming in harsh pants. The blade retracted, leaving only the metal gauntlet. Nottingham knew both were at the end of their endurance and he circled, watching for his opening.

Pez gritted her teeth and lunged at Nottingham again. Trying to hit him was like punching smoke. He just faded out of the way somehow. Her legs felt like lead. It was becoming too much of an effort to chase him, the coward. Why wouldn't he just stand still and take it like a man? It wasn't like he didn't have it coming.

The Witchblade retreated completely, leaving her arm cold. It was the only thing that was. Sara was overheated, like she'd been overdoing in the gym. Blood was pounding in her ears, and it was hard to think over the roaring. The only thing she knew was that she was in a battle with Nottingham and losing.

She didn't have much more fight in her, and knew she had to take him out quick. She rushed him; arm swinging upward in what would have been a glorious haymaker, had she connected. Inertia from her desperate lunge brought her down to one knee. Her hand touched the floor, helping her catch her balance. Her forearm pressed against her boot, and the bulge underneath it that was her back-up revolver.

Why chase the lying little weasel around the room when she could shoot him? Sara couldn't imagine why the thought hadn't occurred to her before. She slid her hand into the top of her boot and pulled out the snub-nosed Smith.

Ian twisted as she fired; one hand open and moving. He felt the vibration of the bullet in his hand as the projectile played out its inertia, continuing the spin until he was facing Sara. She was staring at him in shock, eyes wide and those lovely lips he feared he would never again kiss parted.

She spluttered for a moment before finding her voice, "How the Hell did you do that?"

The explanation was far to involved and esoteric for her to really want to hear, so Ian gave her a secretive little smile and opened his palm. The spent bullet fell from his gloved hand. There wasn't even a scorch mark on the palm.

"I did not kill Joseph Siri, nor did I kill his wife. You must believe me," Nottingham stared into her eyes, willing her to have faith in him, to trust.

Sara took her hand away from the trigger, the gun clearly wasn't going to do her a bit of good, and held the now-spent Witchblade up. "I saw you on the rooftop of a building with a sniper rifle, so don't give me that shit."

"Then you did not see me kill the Siris." Ian said with quiet conviction.

"Then who did, the Easter Bunny?" Sara raised a disbelieving brow. Her reply lost some of its impact, delivered as it was with still panting breath.

"It was one of the agents who were supposed to be protecting them." Nottingham knew she wasn't going to just accept his word, and indeed, the first thing out of her mouth was…

"You got any proof?"

"Actually, I was watching the building when it happened. Unfortunately, I was too far away to intervene." It was true, he had been. The fact that he wouldn't have, even if he had been, was something he didn't need to bring up. He had learned from Irons how to tell the version of the truth that would paint him in the best light.

"You just happened to see it all with your own little eyes. How convenient. I don't suppose you have anything to back your story up." Pezzini's voice was sceptical.

"If you will permit me?" Nottingham asked and raised his hand toward his inner jacket pocket, but not reaching in. It would look far too much like he was going for a weapon.

"Just move real slowly," Sara narrowed her eyes and brought her hand back to the trigger. She probably couldn't hit him, but it would make him move, keep him from shooting back at her if he was lying and going for a gun of his own.

Nottingham brought out a small digital recording device. It still had the ear bud plugged in to the side, which dangled on the black wire connector as he held it out to her.


	32. Proof Positive

DDD

Proof Positive

Kenneth had watched the scene unfold, a mask of sardonic amusement firmly in place. He had listened as Nottingham begged Pezzini to continue to trust him. He heard her rebuttal, all the while remaining silent, the wheels turning in his mind. Ian had betrayed him, had stolen the woman Irons had planned to marry from under his very nose. The reason for Sara's continued refusal of his suit suddenly became clear.

If either of the lovebirds had spared him a glance, they would think he was enjoying the show. The illusion couldn't be further from the truth. Underneath the smirk, he was furious. How dare they betray him, and with each other no less? This was an affront not to be borne.

The fact that there was clearly trouble in their illicit paradise brought Kenneth a small measure of satisfaction. It had taken very little to collapse the foundations of the traitorous romance and send it tumbling. A judicious application of truth, however much he hated to speak it, would destroy any chance Ian had of reconciliation with Sara.

If Irons chose his words with enough care, he could undoubtedly goad Pezzini into her former homicidal state, with Nottingham once again her target. If the battle did not end here, for Sara looked weary, it would doubtless continue at a later time until one or the other fell.

Actually, the Wielder looked like she was about to drop now. Had she torn the fragile, healing flesh? Fighting with Nottingham was a far cry from the light duty the doctor's orders had called for. Kenneth checked to make sure he was still being ignored by the couple. Finding their attention still firmly on one another, he used the phone at his desk to place a call as Ian protested his innocence to Sara.

"Dr Immo, come up to my study; and bring your kit. There has been an incident." Kenneth hung up without waiting for a reply, his attention focused on the two as Sara asked for proof of Ian's innocence.

Nottingham claimed that he had something that would exonerate him, and Irons knew he meant the tape that he had played back shortly before Pezzini burst in on their meeting. The audio commentary would exonerate Ian unless he confessed that the tape was a happy accident, recorded while awaiting his chance to kill Joe Siri himself.

It was unlikely that Ian would say anything so damning. Surely he would keep his silence and return to Sara's good graces. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he fought back the impulse to tell the detective exactly what had been done, or not done, and why. It would be sweet to see her renewed fury, but the telling would also implicate him, putting him and his company under the scrutiny of various law enforcement agencies.

As judicious as he had been in his dealings, Irons was not naïve enough to believe that there was no evidence of his wrongdoing to be found. Something would be uncovered, and he would be arrested. Kenneth had no desire to suffer the loss of power that came with being incarcerated, however temporary he could probably arrange for it to be, yet he could not let go of the desire to destroy the two standing before him.

He could always leave the country for a few years; change his identity as he had countless times over his greatly elongated lifetime. The only difficulty there was that he would have to give up all the power he had amassed as Kenneth Irons. It had been difficult enough leaving Germany; and he had not had half the powerbase there that he had created here.

Even if he fled ahead of the court's conviction, Vorshlag would be seized, in whole or in part, by greedy government officials. If some of the companies under the Vorshlag umbrella were smart enough to escape, they would still be pulled down and their market share parcelled out by his competitors. Irons economic power would be just as gone as his political clout.

That was an option to be pursued only as a last recourse, clearly. This brought him back to his original question. How could he turn this situation to his advantage? There must be a way. Kenneth continued to turn possibilities over in his mind while Pezzini hesitantly took the recording from Nottingham.

Sara played the tape back. She closed her eyes as the two agents talked, the better to visualize the situation. There was the muffled thump of a body hitting carpet, and then the man was talking again, making it clear that he had just shot his partner. After a long moment of silence came the sound of a door opening, and then Joe Siri's voice asking, "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. Everything is just fine, Mr. Siri." There were two more shots fired, and then silence.

Sara bowed her head, loss striking her anew as she listened to Joe's last moments. The tape continued to play, the sound of furniture overturning and more gunfire filling the room, but none of it penetrated the haze of misery that surrounded her. Pez looked up at Nottingham, eyes wet with tears.

"I'm sorry Sara." Ian hated the pain in her eyes.

"So am I Ian," Pez fought to keep her composure, but her lower lip trembled, betraying the level of her emotional turmoil. "And I'm sorry I doubted you. Can you forgive me?"

"You are a staunch defender of those you love. I can only hope to one day be worthy of such loyalty and devotion." Nottingham said, a little of his sorrow at not yet being trusted coloring his voice.

"I should have known you hadn't done it," Sara stepped closer to Ian, the small space between them suddenly charged with sexual energy.

Seeing them together was worse than the abstract knowledge that the two had been building a relationship. It burned his gut like acid to watch Sara reach up and gently run her thumb along the outer edge of Nottingham's lower lip.

"You probably should put some ice on that," Sara kept her touch light as she passed over the thin line of dried blood bisecting his lip. Ian caught her hand in his gloved one, stopping her progress long enough to bestow a forgiving kiss on her palm.

It was as inflammatory to Irons temper as waving a red flag in front of a bull. The blonde stood, the chair legs made a scraping sound from the force of his rising. Sara was supposed to be his. Kenneth could not blithely sit by and let another touch so intimately the only woman he could ever care about. Jealousy blurred the edge of intellect, making all other concerns fade into insignificance.

.o.

A/N: First, I would like to thank everyone for reading, even those of you who do not review. Erin, you will be glad to know that I am nearly finished. There is one chapter, maybe two more depending on how much Kenny dominates the scene. I will then finish Black Dragons and my Andromeda story, and I'm thinking about going back and rewriting Academy Days. It's the first thing I ever tried to write, and it is rough. (Not as bad as my old Star Trek stuff, but no one apart from my best friends ever saw that pile of Horta droppings, thank all the little green gods) Genna, with what Ian grew up with, Sara's behavior coincides with the attention he has gotten from Irons. Negative attention caring to him. (ok, a bit of an oversimplification, but you know what I mean) If Ian ever gets some therapy and some self-respect, Sara might see the end of that stick. Thelma, it would have made the end quicker, at any rate. Pezzini, glad to hear from ya! Yep, there's more. Camyde, the Witchblade has its own agenda, and can be as wicked a manipulator as Kenny. Dragongrrl, I know what you mean, and no. I felt the same way. Castironcanine, thanks for your comments. The tension between the three was part of what made the show so amazing, it's good to hear that I've kept close to that feel. If you like that dynamic, just wait until you see the next chapter.


	33. The Shades of Truth

DDD

"I would not be so quick to accept his embraces, were I you." Kenneth watched the two startle at the sound of his voice. Forgot about him had they?

"What do you mean?" Sara made a half-turn so she could face Irons, her hand lingering on Ian's cheek.

"There are still some questions you need to ask your paramour, and I think you will find the answers align far more closely with your original assessment of the situation than Nottingham's pre-recorded information has led you to believe." Kenneth kept his tone pleasant and even, but his eyes glittered with malice.

"I've already heard the tape, so you can forget about trying any of your manipulative bullshit. Ian didn't kill anyone last night." Pezzini shook her head in negation.

"Are you certain of that?" Irons nearly purred the question, knowing he was boxing his prey in quite neatly.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Sara tilted her chin up defiantly. She had been too quick to judge Ian last time, and she had seen how much it hurt him. She would not make that same mistake again.

"Funny then, that the Witchblade should show you a vision based on events that never happened." There was no humor in his tone.

"The Witchblade was damaged by Ceto, maybe it was just…" Sara paused and thought hard for an explanation, "Confused."

"Confused?" Kenneth raised a brow in disbelief, "Well, I suppose this is why wing'd Cupid is oft painted blind."

"Just what are you implying?" Pez glared at Irons. Why could the man never speak plain English?

"The Gauntlet is not capable of fabricating illusion; that has never been one of its gifts. It can only grant you the power to see truly, whether past or present. It pierces the Veil, nothing more and nothing less." Kenneth shook his head at such wilful ignorance.

"So what I saw was what? The Siris were shot at close range by a rouge agent, not from a rooftop with a sniper rifle."

"No, they were not, but Dante was." Irons paused to let the implications of that statement sink in. "The only reason Nottingham did not kill the Siris was because he was beaten to it. How else would he come to be in a position to have recorded that conversation?"

Pezzini looked back at Ian, green eyes pleading for a different answer than what the coldly angry blond was leading her toward. She searched his face for some sign that what Irons had just said was a lie, but saw instead that Kenneth had been correct. The brown eyes that would not meet hers were brimming over with guilt.

Sara jerked her hand away from his cheek as if she had been burned. "How could you?"

Nottingham looked past his beloved's angry face to Irons. He hoped to see some clue as to how he should progress, his heart too wounded by Sara's reaction to think beyond the fact that this must somehow be part of Kenneth's plan. It had to be. Why else would Irons expose them both to an officer of the law during a federal investigation they had been working so assiduously to avoid?

He had expected was a look of concern or support, a tilt of the head or a shift of the hand to direct him what to do next. What he had thought to see did not manifest. In its stead was a gleeful malice that rubbed salt in the open wound of Sara's rejection. Anger bloomed in answer, a violent red flower that filled the empty ache in his chest.

"Shall we not tell Sara all of it then? Shall we not tell her that you sent me to silence them? I think she should hear it all, if we are to tell tales." The words burst forth in an overt act of defiance that surprised all parties, including Dr. Immo, who hovered by the door. He seemed uncertain whether or not to enter and examine his patient or depart the scene.

"It is not your place to speak," Irons hissed, stepping into the dark-haired man's space, emphasising the height difference between them.

Ian met his eyes instead of bowing his head as had been his wont. "If this affected only me, then I would have remained silent, but a half-told tale leaves Lady Sara in dangerous ignorance. I can no longer blindly follow your lead, trusting that you will do your best by her."

An angry flush settled over Irons cheekbones in the face of Nottingham's continued defiance. After a long pause he regained control of himself. When next he spoke there was a cutting civility to his tone. "If you would have the whole of this tale told, by all means let us tell it, and tell it truly. It was you who first came to me, asking that Captains Dante and Siri be eliminated. I counselled patience, did I not?"

Kenneth paused, gratified to see Ian flinch and Sara's fists clench. So she had seen his reaction as well. Good.

"Not until Detective Orlinski came to the mansion and informed me that we should get his superiors out of the clutches of the FBI or damning information about my past would be released, did I reluctantly agree with your initial assessment."

"You gave me the order to kill them," Ian cut through the semantics.

"Yes I did. I suppose that makes their demise my fault, since you have never, ever, disobeyed an order. Right, Ian?" Kenneth stared down his nose at the younger man, knowing damn well that he had disobeyed him, or he never would have touched Sara.

This time Nottingham could not hold his gaze. Brown eyes slid away guiltily and his shoulders drooped.

"You chose to obey my order because it let you do what you wanted without being responsible for the consequences of your actions. Do not hold me up as the example of all that is evil, you have your own share of wickedness in your soul." Irons smiled as the younger man withdrew further into self-doubt and recrimination.

"Leave him alone!" Sara turned on Irons, furious at his ability to cut Ian to shreds with a few words. Mental abuse was far more insidious and difficult to deal with than physical, and it was harder to detect. Poor Ian, growing up with this kind of treatment, no wonder he was such a mess. A weaker man would have been utterly crushed.

"Why should I? You both wanted the truth; I have given it to you. It is hardly my fault if you find the knowledge a bitter pill to swallow." Irons stepped away from Nottingham; he had already been cowed back into obedience. Now he needed to focus his attention on Pezzini.

"You call that the truth? Maybe if you worked for the National Enquirer," Sara snorted.

"I am being honest," Kenneth shrugged. "It is unfortunate, at least for you, that the reality of the situation does not match that rosy little fantasy you have been concocting in your head."

"What are you talking about?" Sara took an involuntary step back as Irons moved into her space.

Kenneth followed her, lowered his head until he could breathe his poison directly into the delicate shell of her ear. "Ian is so easy to dominate, to control. What a safe relationship this must be for you. Already he hovers at the edge of your life, grateful for the scraps of affection you deign to give."

"If he's like that, don't you think you should look a little closer to home for the cause?" Sara snapped, jerking her head away from Irons.

Kenneth chuckled at her sally. "I knew you would say that."

"Well here's something else I bet you knew I'd say," Sara paused for emphasis, "You're under arrest."

"Are we back to that? Sara, Sara, Sara, I thought we had established that you had no evidence?" Irons smiled, looking down at Pezzini like an indulgent parent.

"That was before your little impromptu confession." Sara waved the black recording device at Irons, showing him that the record button had been pressed.

Kenneth felt a fleeting admiration for the detective; it could not have been easy to think objectively enough to tape their conversation, but the feeling was quickly overwhelmed by irritation at his own failure to notice what she was up to. He glared at the device, as if the heat of his anger alone would destroy it. "That is leverage only if the recording makes it into the hands of a judge."

"That's kind of the point of a trial, you know." Sara smirked, secure in her belief that she had Irons right where she wanted him.

"Ah, but I have no intention of laying my fate at the feet of a judicial system that cannot be relied upon for anything beyond blatant incompetence and miscarriages of that same justice they purport to uphold." Irons met her smirk with a sneer.

"Of course you have contempt for the system, you've been breaking laws left and right for years, but all that is about to change. I think you'll learn some respect once you're on the other side of the bars." Sara reached for the small of her back, where she had shoved her backup after finding that shooting at Nottingham was nothing but an exercise in frustration. She brought the gun up and centered the barrel on the center of Kenneth's chest.

Irons glanced down at the pistol and then up at Ian. "Disarm her, take the tape."

"No." Nottingham met icy blue eyes with new-found obstinacy. Easy to dominate was he? Begged for scraps did he? It had hurt to hear the man, who Ian had thought of as a father, speak so.

"What do you mean no?" Kenneth was further incensed by this unwelcome show of independence.

"I am disobeying you. Surely you understand? It is not, after all, the first time I have done so." Ian threw the words of his mentor and former master back in his face.

Pezzini shifted her attention to Ian, as amazed by the display of backbone as Irons had been. That distraction was all the opening Kenneth needed. He lunged forward to take the gun away himself. He hardly needed some waffling ingrate, blinded by hormones, to take care of the situation.

Nottingham saw Irons move and tried to intercept, brushing against Sara's gun arm as he did. A thunderous boom, made louder by the enclosed space, temporarily deafened all three. For a long moment, no one moved, frozen in place by the unexpected. Then Kenneth staggered back, blood staining the lower right front of his pale grey dress shirt. He bumped into the arm of the leather reading couch and collapsed onto the seat, arm reflexively going around the wound.

"Have you people lost your minds? Get out of the way if you're not going to be useful," Dr. Immo huffed as he pushed past the stunned couple, his black bag thumping Sara in the ribs as he passed.

The physician sat his bag on the back of the couch and popped it open one-handed. He pulled a pair of gauze pads out of the bag, ripped the sterile wrapping off, and pressed them to the wound. There was the faintest outhouse smell around the injury, and the slight swelling indicative of blood pooling in the abdomen.

Immo closed his eyes for a moment. He had been afraid of this. He cursed quietly to himself as abandoned the gauze pads. Pressure would do nothing for internal bleeding. Irons needed surgery, and he needed it yesterday. He turned to the desk phone and dialled the extension for his lab. "Ms. Schniekert, send a trauma team to Mr. Irons personal study and have theatre one prepped for surgery."


	34. Plotting at Death's Door

Kenneth had seen a lot of men gut shot during the war, before his transfer to Ahnenerbe. It took the soldiers days to die, groaning and screaming in white hospital beds, the air around them rank with the smell of intestinal fluids. He did not want to join their ranks. "Immo,"

"Yes sir?" The doctor replied as two burly orderlies wheeled the gurney into the operating room.

"What are my odds?"

"It will depend on what I find when I operate, but my visual assessment would be; not good." Immo sighed as he watched Kenneth being transferred to the table with a concerned eye. The movement showed all too clearly the expanding bulge in his abdomen.

"You need not pretty it up for me doctor. I've seen this kind of wound often enough, back in the War. This body is…" Irons gasped, shock wearing off enough that he was beginning to feel the stabbing ache in his guts, "beyond recovery."

"You cannot know that," Immo protested.

"Give me credit enough to know my own flesh." Kenneth grimaced as he tilted his head to look down his body. What he saw did not reassure him in the least.

"The longer we stand here talking, the more likely your doom-saying will become truth." The doctor retorted, gesturing impatiently for the anaesthesiologist to put Irons under.

"I think your efforts will avail you little, but the situation may yet be salvaged." Kenneth paused, the idea still sounding radical, even in his own mind. "Can you transfer my consciousness into Subject Two?"

"Theoretically, yes." Immo hesitantly replied to the outré question.

"I did not ask for qualifiers. Yes or no, can it be done?" Irons snapped, waving the anaesthesiologist away. He wasn't going under until he had an answer.

"It has never been done, but there is nothing in the simulations that would indicate undue difficulty. There would be some disorientation and I suspect that some physical therapy would be needed. The real wild card is your condition. If you were in better health, I would foresee no problem, but as you are now…" Immo's Gallic shrug covered a host of scenarios, all of them bad.

"The risk is acceptable. After all, at that point my alternative is death. Any chance is better than none. Have everything readied, in case it proves necessary." With that final command, Kenneth dropped his hand and allowed the mask to be placed over his face.

His last thoughts were that it would be far more convenient if 'Kenneth Irons' died. He could work unhindered in a new body. There would be no questions to answer, no eventual trial for the damning things he had confessed to the detective, and best of all, a body that looked exactly like the one Sara was already so fond of.

Immo went to work the instant Irons eyes closed. He laboured long and skilfully, but in the end Irons had been correct. The body was too badly damaged to survive. He stepped back and held his arms up to signify that he was done. He could hear the blood drip from his elbows to the theatre floor.

One of his assistants sutured the opening while another wheeled in Subject Two. Knowing that they could handle the initial set-up without him, Immo went to scrub up again before starting the second, even more dangerous procedure. He wouldn't have been so worried if it had been a clone of Irons own body, but it wasn't. There was a chance that the transferred data would not be compatible.

True, neural mapping transfers had been done from healthy donor to those who, by virtue of paralysis, had none. Yet those had been isolated areas, not a systemic download, and there were not so many documented cases as Immo would like. He shook his head, trying to dispel the humorous but inappropriate classic horror-movie image of one of Irons new body parts rebelling on him.

If the transfer failed, it would not be something so simple or entertaining. More likely, Irons would be mentally unstable or suffer partial amnesia as areas of his memory did not 'write' across. Worst case scenario, the transfer would not work at all, rendering the clone unusable and Kenneth a vegetable for the last minutes of his life.

Clean now, and knowing his wandering thoughts for the stall that it was, Immo returned to surgery. It was time to reach for the last rabbit in the hat, and hope he wasn't out of tricks.

Outside the medical wing, Pezzini and Nottingham waited on opposite ends of a tastefully neutral room designed for just such a purpose. The silence was tense, and not solely from concern over the man in surgery. Both were feeling guilty, but Ian seemed to be taking it far worse than Sara. He was a silent shadow, rocking slightly in a corner, his gaze fixed on the door that led to Dr. Immo's domain.

Sara was pacing fit to wear a hole in the floor. She had just turned to begin another lap when the door finally opened. Doctor Immo stepped through the door; body slumped with weariness and grief.

Bypassing the detective entirely, Immo put a fatherly arm around Nottingham. "I'm sorry son, he didn't make it."

"This is my fault." Ian whispered. He closed his eyes, silent tears sparkling in the overhead light. He bowed his head and seemed to sink in on himself.

"No Ian, it was an accident. I was there, I saw the whole thing. No one is to blame." Immo had known that Ian would not take the news well.

He hated having to lie to Ian, but Irons had been very clear on what he wanted. The doctor stroked the distraught man's arm, but Nottingham seemed not to notice. In fact, he didn't even twitch when Immo drove the syringe into that same arm. Momentary oblivion was the only gift he had to give the boy he had watched grow up. By the time the sedatives had worn off, they would be alone, and Irons could tell him what had really happened.

"What did you do to him?" Sara started toward the physician the moment Ian slumped against Immo in obvious unconsciousness.

"It is a sedative only. He's had too many shocks lately, and I don't think he's slept in a couple of days. You heard him blaming himself. Ian is a very sensitive boy; he'll be beating himself up over this for a very long time. This way I know he'll at least get some rest before he goes completely off the deep end." Immo sighed and tried ineffectually to shift Nottingham. The 'boy' had gotten very heavy over the years.

"Like you said, it was an accident. Why would Ian think it was his fault? He didn't make Irons go for my gun." Sara looked down at the unlikely pair in confusion.

"What has emotion to do with logic, detective?" Immo looked up at the brunette with no little irritation. Did she know Ian at all?

"Yeah, yeah," Sara ran her fingers through her hair. "I know what you mean, but…"

"But nothing. I came in just in time to hear the relevant parts. I know perfectly well that Ian has a lot of issues to work through, you should realize it too."

"I…" Sara paused and looked down at the sleeping assassin, all the things they'd left unsaid over the past several hours choking her.

"Don't you have a report to write?" Immo couldn't help being snappish, he'd been in surgery so long that his patience was all used up. He just didn't have the energy to deal with the issues of a stranger, especially one who had proven to be the catalyst for this whole situation. It might not be fair of him, but he'd just spent hours trying to put an old friend back together, and he wasn't feeling very fair.

Pezzini looked startled at his comment, and then her face fell as she realized he was right. She had a lot of paperwork to do now actually, and she'd have to drop off her gun to ballistics. This was not going to look good at all on her record. Two civilians dead in as many months? The Review Board was going to stick an apple in her mouth and roast her over the coals.

At least she still had the tape. That might save her bacon, depending on if the White Bulls situation had been cleared up by the time she went before the Board. Sara was going to have to play that recording for someone else first though. Agent Myers needed to know what one of his people was up to.


	35. To Begin Anew

To Begin Anew

"How… where did you get this?" Agent Myers stared at the tape player sitting on his desk as if it were something poisonous.

"A friend," Sara hedged.

"I take it this isn't the original?" Myers arched a brow at her cagey response.

"You take it right. I was pretty sure you were clean, but I've been wrong before." Pezzini shrugged, thinking she'd been wrong about a lot of things lately.

"It would be better if there were video surveillance to go with this audio, but I can piece this together with the rest of the data the investigation has already compiled." Myers took the tape out of the recorder and slid it into a manila envelope.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"I have to send the recording off to be verified, of course." The agent gave her a look that suggested she had lost her mind not to realize that.

"Oh." Sara fought back a surge of anger at not being believed. If someone had a tape that implicated one of her coworkers in something this bad, she'd have it checked out too. It was a reasonable precaution. "What are you going to do in the meantime?"

"I'll have Seifert watched, and I'll check into his financial records. Without Dante and Siri to lead me to the next link in the chain, I have to go after it another way."

"What about Irons? We know he was going to have them killed, he confessed." Now it was Pezzini's turn to look at Myers like he was an idiot.

"Key words there, 'going to'. He did not arrange the hit that took out Siri. If Irons were still alive, I could use that tape to find out what he knew and who his connections were, but he's not. If there were any links to be had in the first place."

"Oh he had them all right," Sara couldn't believe her ears. Irons was guilty as sin. This whole situation had his name all over it.

"According to the tape, Irons was being blackmailed for something in his past. Powerful men don't like to be embarrassed, and they don't like being squeezed. It is unlikely that he was involved with the White Bulls. Why would he be?" Myers held out his hands to indicate the huge gap in social strata that the two moved in.

"Why wouldn't Irons be at the top of that chain you're trying to follow?" Pez shot back.

"I find it highly unlikely. Irons has worked closely with our government on many occasions, and Vorshlag holds many military contracts. Companies like that get watched very closely." The agent shook his head in negation of Pezzini's idea.

"That's my point. Those contracts put Irons in contact with a lot of people in different places. Surely that would make it easy for him to mastermind the whole thing?" Sara arched a brow.

"Not really, and you shouldn't keep after Mr Irons like that, especially since you were involved in his death. It makes one wonder if his death was as accidental as you say." Myers stared at Pez suspiciously.

"I don't believe I'm hearing this." Pezzini sneered, not liking his attitude one bit.

"Watch it detective. You used up all my good grace when you skipped out on me this morning." The agent growled back. Witness or not, cop or not, if Pezzini had gone vigilante, he'd take her down.

"I got a… tip about the shootings. I had to go, there wasn't time to wait for you to come back, and besides, my informant would never have said anything with you present. Sorry." Sara's voice was flat and unapologetic. They'd already had this discussion when she showed up at his door an hour ago.

"Sorry? It could have been a setup, you idiot! I swear; if you were one of my people, I'd bust your ass." Myers leaned across the desk, pinning the detective with a hard stare. Going off alone like that, especially after just learning about the assassinations, was plain stupid.

"Well it wasn't, and I'm not." Pez crossed her arms and stared right back at him, clearly not intimidated by the threat.

"Thank God," Myers snapped and leaned back in his chair. "Cause I wouldn't want the political hot potato you've just dumped on your Chief by shooting such a prominent and upstanding member of the community."

"You've heard the rest of that tape. He attacked me." Her reply was defensive.

"Doesn't matter, Irons had a lot of friends in this town. If you were staying on here, it wouldn't be long before they put enough pressure on your chief that he found a reason to give you the boot." Myers steamrollered over her protestations.

"What do you mean, 'not staying on here'?" Pezzini narrowed her eyes at the agent and stood up. If he was going to start in on her about safe houses again, she was gone.

"Look, much as I hate to admit it, we probably won't get everybody. This organization is large and well established. Whoever we miss is going to have an axe to grind with you." Myers pointed out.

"I thought you guys were some kind of hot shit investigative unit." Sara curled a lip in derision.

"We are, but that doesn't make us infallible." A vein pulsed in the agent's forehead.

"Can I get that in writing? It sure would come in handy the next time we have a jurisdictional pissing contest with you guys." Sara could tell she was really winding him up, but she didn't care. It felt good to get a little of her own back.

"No." Myers gritted his teeth for a moment before going back to the original topic. "Even if, by some miracle, we do get everyone, it's not as difficult as we would like for an inmate to arrange a hit from prison."

"You're just a regular Pollyanna, aren't you?"

Myers shrugged as if saying, what can you expect? Everyone knew how corrupt the prison system was. "You want to live to be thirty-five? The Witness Protection Program is your best bet."

"You want me to give up being a cop?" Sara shifted, subconsciously moving into a fighting stance.

"That may not be necessary, but you would have to be moved to another city, one far enough away that it wouldn't fall under the White Bulls influence." Myers said calmly, ignoring the way she was gearing up for a fight.

"No way, I love this city." Sara protested.

"More than your life?"

Sara opened her mouth to say yes, but couldn't. She'd spent too much time in a hospital bed contemplating her own mortality to say that. "No," she finally admitted.

"Well, it'll be between you and your reassignment officer where you go, so be thinking about where you'd like to end up." Myers looked down at her with the first pang of sympathy he'd felt for her since she left him holding the Danish. He'd hate to be told he couldn't do his job any more either.

Sara nodded and tried to think of a city that she wouldn't mind moving to. She knew without being told that it couldn't be anyplace that she had ever mentioned to her coworkers, or that had relatives living in it, however distant their connection. That actually left a lot of options, since she was an orphan without any real desire to travel.

The idea of relocating wasn't as hard to think about as Sara had expected. There was no voice screaming objections in her head at the concept. Everything had gone to shit here, and it didn't look like there was any way to fix it. Maybe someplace new would be good for her, someplace that didn't hold a reminder of those she had lost on every street corner. Hell, someplace where she could ride the Buell year-round without freezing her ass off.

There wasn't anything to hold her here, just Gabriel and Vicki, really. Going to see the Woo family these days meant navigating a minefield of guilt and loss that left her nerves shot and her hands shaking like a wino between bottles.

Work wasn't any better. Most of her fellow officers were dirty bastards that she was going to have to somehow work with, without spitting in their lying faces. When the arrests finally went down, the ones who were left would have to deal with the censure and public distrust that would follow such a widespread and public bust of their precinct. Maybe it was cowardly, but Pez didn't think she wanted to be around for that.

Not to mention having to watch her back. Even if the FBI did their job and arrested everyone directly involved, those who went down would have their defenders. For some reason the biggest S.O.B. always had a friend or two that just couldn't believe their buddy was dirty. Those guys would hold a grudge, and make sure everyone knew who had sent their brother officer up the river.

It would be Hell every time Pez had some case that crossed into another department's turf, because even those without an axe to grind wouldn't want to talk to her. They wouldn't trust her, nobody liked a rat. She also knew Myers had a point about her being a political liability. There was every chance she'd lose her badge before the other things could even become a problem.

Maybe if the thing with Ian hadn't just been fucked beyond recall, Sara would have thought harder about staying. She wasn't normally one to back down from a challenge, but even by her standards their relationship had gone strange. What was she supposed to say to him? Sorry we shot your father? Ian wouldn't even look at her while they were in the waiting room.

It wasn't just him with issues though. Sara was not happy with the fact that he had been ready to assassinate the only family she had left in the world. Nottingham had betrayed her. Oh not by action, but certainly by intent. Perhaps the worst part was remembering how he had played her with that air of wounded innocence. It made Pez question whether anything he had said or done had been honest. Did she know him at all?

No, it would be better to go now. An ironic smile curled her lips. Just a week ago Sara had started to think that she wanted her life to change. Danny was right; she should be more careful what she wished for.

"I'll send a team over to pack out your apartment. The sooner we get you out of this place, the better." Myers shook his head ruefully; "I'd like to have at least one of my witnesses still alive when this thing goes to trial."

"What a coincidence, I'd like to still BE alive. Think your guys can manage not to screw up again?" Sara bit out.

"We know where the leak is, so you should be safe," Myers held up a hand when Pez started to object, "This time you are going straight to Witness Protection, no stopover at a safe house. We'll keep you completely out of the limelight until we need to bring you back to testify."

And that was that. Sara found herself very efficiently hustled out of the office and down to another department completely to talk to a 'placement councillor'. The office was sleek and very, very modern. Even the desk was glass and chrome. It didn't match the man sitting behind the desk at all. His hair was wavy and blonde, incongruously curling around an aged, strongly Slavic face.

Pez knew that face. She'd first seen him at Danny's graveside. He'd asked her if she was ok. She had caught glimpses of him at odd moments over the past few months, but they had never again spoken. "So, you're FBI."

"Not exactly," the man gently refuted her statement in that same accented voice she remembered from before.

"Then what, exactly, are you?" The bitchy reply spilled out before Sara could stop herself.

"I am called Lazar, and I am here to help you." He answered calmly, ignoring or missing the sarcasm entirely.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Did I not?" He slanted an enigmatic look at her.

"You know you didn't." Sara frowned, this Lazar character might sound like English was his second language, but he was proficient enough that there was no way he didn't understand the question.

"My title would mean nothing to you, and is unimportant at the moment. I am here to help you." Lazar rested his arms on the glass and leaned forward earnestly. "You stand at a crossroads; your choice here will affect the rest of your life."

"What choice?" Pezzini asked bitterly.

"Whether or not you will let these experiences destroy what you have always believed in and worked for," Lazar looked deep into her eyes. His face fell as he saw all the pain and misery hiding behind the thin veil of surface anger. Sara was a very wounded soul. Right now he doubted she was strong enough for the battles to come.

"What? You think I should stay?" The statement seemed very strange, coming as it was from a placement councillor.

"No. Where you are has nothing to do with who you are."

"Deep, very deep," Sara said in her best 'humor-the-madman' voice.

Lazar smiled without humor, "The fact that you don't believe me tells me much. You need to get away from this place, see the world with fresh eyes. Perhaps then you will be able to find yourself."

"Listen up, Mr. New Age Crystal Freak; I know right where I am. I'm up Shit Creek without a paddle." Pezzini stabbed a finger at him, "The only thing I want from you is to be placed somewhere that I can still be a cop."

"That can be arranged." Lazar shifted his attention from her to the computer, and did some two-fingered typing.

He paused, glared at the screen as though taking offence, and then began typing again. Sara wished she could see what he was doing, but the monitor was purposefully facing away from her, probably to keep her from seeing any passwords or profiles. At length he finished and looked up. "And so it is done. I could not make you a detective, but you are still a police officer."

"Why can't I be a detective?" Sara glared at him. She was still not happy about the sanctimonious little lecture she had been on the receiving end of.

Lazar shook his head; "There is too big a chance that you would end up with a case high profile enough to get your picture in the paper. Besides, uniforms provide a certain amount of anonymity, which is very important since you want to keep the same kind of work."

"But…" Sara began, only to be cut off.

"Normally you wouldn't be allowed to have anything to do with your former occupation, but I have a little latitude with your placement, and administering justice is too intrinsic to who you are. You won't be able to stop saving people, so I'm making sure you have some kind of support when you do." Lazar slanted her a look through the curls that had slid forward on his face when his head had been down over the computer.

For a second Pez thought Lazar somehow knew about the Witchblade. Her hand automatically covered her wrist, as if to hide it from him. She looked into eyes dark with old secrets and decided to redirect the subject. "Where are you sending me?"

"One of our people took early retirement about ten years ago, moved back to her old home town and took a seat on the city council. We still get together occasionally and reminisce; or trade new stories. Last time I spoke with her she was complaining about the lack of qualified officers applying for the slot that had opened up two months ago. I checked to see if the position was still open, and it was. Now it's yours."

"Just like that?" Sara arched a brow in disbelief.

"Once I tell her who you are, she will make sure you get the job. The fact that you are female, and therefore a minority, will make it even easier." Lazar shrugged.

"So where am I going?"

"The Midwest," Lazar quirked his lips up, amused by the thought of the city girl's first exposure to the country. Kansas might not survive the experience.

"Could you be a little more vague?" Sara complained. The Midwest covered a lot of territory.

"After what happened to the last two witnesses in this case?" Lazar shook his head, "I will not speak your destination until I am before your driver, and even he won't be taking you all the way."

"Why not?" Pez rolled her eyes at the excessive secrecy.

"It's best to break up your method of travel, makes you harder to track." Her attitude made Lazar shake his head.

"Yeah, and what about my stuff? How's that gonna get there?" Pezzini grumbled, not comfortable with the fact that a bunch of strangers were going to be pawing through her possessions.

"Things are easier to lose track of than people. We transport them to a warehouse, where they will be shipped out of after I get your itinerary confirmed. Your possessions will arrive on a moving van the day after you do."

"Fine. What next?" Sara asked with ill grace.

"You will need new identification. If you go down the hallway on your left, the first office you come to is for issuing the relevant papers. I may not see you again until the next time I have dinner with my friend, so I will wish you a safe journey now." Lazar raised a hand in farewell.

"Thanks," Sara realized she meant it, however grudgingly. He could have ignored her wishes and made her into a florist or something.

"You are welcome." Lazar watched her leave, waiting to move until her footsteps faded away. He took a cloth out of his pocket and wiped the desk and keyboard down, erasing all trace of his physical presence.

It was pure providence that the actual owner of this office was taking a long lunch, and that Sara's escort had not looked into the room when delivering her. Well, providence in the form of the Witchblade. The artifact was amazingly adept at manipulating events to give it the best potential outcome, which also meant it was highly unlikely that anyone would check back with the man whose office he had temporarily usurped, but Lazar had always been a cautious man.

He stood up and pulled a janitor's cap and jacket out from under the desk. Lazar donned his disguise again, careful to tuck his bright hair up in the hat. Then he headed to the closet and pulled out the yellow mop bucket, complete with dirty water and stringy mop, which he had concealed there. Long ago Lazar had discovered that menial labourers were invisible, and he was not too proud to join their ranks when he needed to pass unnoticed.

He had done what he could to set the Wielder's feet on the path. The rest she must do herself, for true healing could only come from within.

-

A/N: Time for the old bad news/good news/bad news. Bad news, we've come to the end of this particular tale. Good news, there will be one more story in this series. Bad news, it is going to have to wait while I complete the other pieces of fiction I have left unfinished. Thank you all for reading, and extra big thanks goes out to those who reviewed.


End file.
